


Worn Out Shoes

by moonstalker24



Series: Zombie Apocalypse AU [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, CampNaNoWriMo, Canon Compliant up to S3, Character Death, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jackson's Troupe of Traveling Werewolves, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lydia Martin, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Cora Hale/Jordan Parrish, Minor Ethan/Danny Mahealani, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Steter Week, Steter Week 2016, Violence, but mostly just the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 96,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstalker24/pseuds/moonstalker24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the dead rise, and the world comes to an end, the McCall Pack must learn to live in this new world, or die in the attempt. This is the story of the end, and of the year that follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This turned into a monster of a project. It grew so much that I'm developing plans for three more stories in this verse. I'm already sighing over it.
> 
> So, this is set in the future. Stiles, Scott and the Pack are in college. Also, it's only canon compliant up to the end of 3A. The Nogitsune happened, but not entirely in the way it happened on the show. Kira exists in this world, but she is not in Beacon Hills. When her parents threatened to move her away, they really did it. Allison is alive for reasons of I want her to be.
> 
> Also, I'm messing with ages a little bit. Liam and Mason are 15-16 when they are introduced, so they're five years younger instead of two. Malia is three years younger at 17. I did this for story reasons (and because I wanted to). Malia is also NOT Peter's kid in this.
> 
> Title comes from Noah Gundersen's "David", it's from the first line which is _I've been kicking at the curb with my worn out shoes_  
> [I created an 8tracks playlist for this fic.](http://8tracks.com/moonstalker24/worn-out-shoes)
> 
> Huge big thank you to moonlightcalls, who let me scream about this. Also to Mal, who not only let me scream about it, but agreed to take on the task of betaing this monster. I don't know what I'd do without you.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_One:_

 

The first anyone hears of it, there are just vague rumors and speculation. Rumors about people getting sick and not getting better. Whispers on the internet about mutant viruses and germ warfare. Little stories from one corner of the world or the other. Stories about this person’s first cousin’s aunt getting sick and attacking the family. That person, who heard it from this guy, who swears he saw a dude bite a guy. All taken with a grain of salt because it’s the internet.

Then the stories grow in frequency; and the news stations start reporting about the strangely virulent strain of flu going around this year.

And then the video gets uploaded to youtube.

Stiles is taking a current affairs class at Berkeley, and they’re discussing the impact the internet has had on the way news reaches the public in the last decade the first time he sees it. One of the other students provides evidence to the kind of change being discussed by asking the professor if he’s seen the video about the police shooting in Phoenix yet. The professor has him put it up on the projector.

The picture is grainy. As awesome as cell phone cameras have become, they are still limited in their capacity. Nothing can make up for distance and bad lighting from the sun setting and turning everything gray. As it is, the video has good sound quality and decent picture, considering.

There’s a man walking across an intersection in what looks like downtown somewhere. He’s… shambling, shuffling along at a pace that isn’t quite a stumble and isn’t quite a walk. There are several cop cars, lights flashing, at the edges of the intersection. There are at least fifteen cops, and plenty of bystanders. There’s a stadium in the background, Stiles can’t tell which sport everyone is on their way to see.

One of the cops is yelling at the man to get out of the intersection.

The two girls sitting behind Stiles scream in shock when the man in the intersection attacks the cop that approaches him to get him out of the street. The guy just, lurches forward. With his whole body. He’s on the uniform in a flash, dragging him screaming to the ground until he’s silenced with a gurgle. Stiles’ stomach clenches.

The whole class seems to be holding their collective breath when four cops run out into the intersection to try and save their comrade. The man lurches to his feet, leaving the officer behind in a growing puddle of blood to shamble toward the other police officers. It makes them pause.

There’s shouting. Calls of ‘Stop!’ and ‘Don’t move!’. Then the first gunshot rings out. The crack of the shot makes the guy next to Stiles jolt in his seat. Stiles feels his lungs seize. He’s been around cops (and therefore guns) his entire life. He knows a good shoot when he sees one.

Center mass. Left side of the chest. That man should have dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

But he doesn’t. The man remains standing, and several seconds go by where no one moves or says anything. Then the man shuffles forward. And another cop fires his weapon. Stiles counts the shots, ears ringing a little as he watches the guy jolt with every hit, still moving forward.

Sixteen bullets. Sixteen good shots.

The last one hits the guy in the head. Only then does he stop moving and drop, finally dead.

The video ends. The class is silent.

Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s never encountered one, but he’s read enough in his research and training to recognize one when he sees one. Zombies. If that wasn’t a zombie he’ll eat his hat. He doesn’t remember the rest of the class.

He doubts anyone else does either.

*

It grows from there. After the video goes viral, it’s like someone left the washroom sink on. Stories flood in from all corners, inundating the world with this attack or that attack. Suddenly it’s not the flu anymore. It’s just the Virus. After the first few attacks, people stop getting sick randomly. A representative of the CDC calls it a natural progression.

The virus goes from randomly transmittable through contact to bloodborne, and in the blink of an eye the world goes to hell.

At the first sign of a real attack in California (and at the Sheriff’s urging because he’s been looped in) Scott puts out the call. By order of the Alpha, all pack members are to return to Beacon Hills until the crisis is over. Stiles picks up Isaac on his way back. They roll into town right as the National Guard is called in, and a national state of emergency is declared.

They’re under Martial Law. Zombies are everywhere.

“Did you hear?” Scott demands. Stiles hasn’t even gotten out of the jeep before Scott is just, there. Eyes wide and worried. Most of his pack has been away for college. They’re scattered and the world is going to hell.

“Hear what? I’ve been driving all day, dude,” Stiles reminds the Alpha.

“L.A.’s being evacuated,” Scott says. He pulls Isaac into a crushing hug. “I haven’t heard from Danny.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Stiles reassures. “He’s Danny. He’s got the twins with him.”

“Right. Right.” Scott sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“You seen my dad?” Stiles asks.

“He’s at the station. The National Guard’s been called up, and he’s coordinating with them. My Dad got a team from the FBI to help secure the hospital. It’s where they’ve been taking the sick.” Scott breathes in heavily through his nostrils. His lips thin. He’s in veterinary school, but probably wishes he’d been fast tracking medical school instead.

At least then he’d be able to volunteer at the hospital. Where his mother has been spending all of her time trying to help the sick and dying. Risking her life.

Stiles claps a hand down on Scott’s shoulder, knowing what he’s thinking. “She’s going to be fine,” he tells his best friend. “She’s Melissa, she’s too badass to let something like this get her.”

“Right,” Scott says again. This time his voice sounds like he believes it, at least a little.

“I’m going to check on Dad, then hit the clinic, see where Deaton needs me on the research front.”

Scott nods absently. It’s zombies, and on a scale of one to world ending, Deaton has thrown his policy of noninterference out the window.

“Have you heard from Lydia?” Isaac asks Scott as he follows his Alpha toward the warehouse. Derek might not live there anymore, but the Hales still own the building full of converted lofts. They’ve reinforced it over the years, making it nigh on impenetrable.

“Her flight left three hours ago,” Scott tells him. “It comes into Oakland this afternoon. She said she was going to rent a car. She’ll call.”

Stiles climbs back into the jeep and heads for the station. They’ve got people scattered across the country. Allison is in Chicago somewhere, Derek and Cora are who knows where on one of their sibling-bonding road trips. Peter travels all over, trading in rare texts. Chris probably left to get Allison as soon as things started getting bad.

Stiles has the horrible feeling that things are going to get worse. Much, much worse.

*

“Hey, kid,” John Stilinski claps his son on the back, settling his hand on the back of his neck and drawing him into a hug. Stiles returns the hug, feeling better just for the embrace.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks, drawing away to watch the rapid action of the station. There’s a unit of national guardsmen helping out. He should probably get used to seeing camo among the tan of the sheriff’s department uniforms.

“The rioting hit Oakland this morning. We’re expecting it to start around here any time now. We’re increasing patrols to try and get in front of it.”

Right. Of course, that makes sense. Stiles nods. “Good idea. What’s the plan?”

“Hit the house, we’re all going to be staying at the lofts. This is going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Will do,” Stiles says. He doesn’t say that he doesn’t think anything is ever going to be the same again. Not after this. It can’t be.

Father and son look at each other for a long time. They don’t say what either of them is thinking, but they know. Stiles isn’t going to tell John to be careful. John isn’t going to tell Stiles the same. They already know they can’t promise to do that.

“See you soon,” Stiles says finally.

Then he turns and leaves the station.

*

Stiles kills his first zombie that night. Deaton sends him home after a long day of researching when they hit a dead end. There’s nothing they can do until they’ve got a sample. Which means they need a zombie. Stiles stumbles tiredly out into the parking lot and directly into what used to be a human being.

The bites all over her arms are still oozing fresh blood. Her hair is matted with it, like she had struggled. Her eyes are blank and cold. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine. She shuffles toward him with a wheezing groaning noise as if the air is just passing through her. She reaches for him.

He bashes her skull into smithereens between the footboard and the door of the jeep. Red splashes up across the door of the vehicle and Stiles sags against the hood, breathing heavily. He registers vaguely that he’s shaking as he stares at the corpse lying on the ground at his feet.

“Stiles?”

He registers the voice. Looks up at Deaton who has come out of the clinic on his own way home. They stare at each other. Deaton takes in the body, the blood and the look on Stiles’ face and knows what happened. His lips thin.

“They’ve reached us.”

“I’m gonna need more training, Doc,” Stiles replies. He’s been slowly learning to be an Emissary. Everything he’s learned so far is mystic aid-the-pack type stuff with quite a bit of warding and protection stuff mixed in. Hardly any of it is combat related. He’s going to need battle magic in the near future.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” Deaton tells him. The time for neutrality is over.

Stiles opens the door of the jeep with a creak and the pulped mess of skull and brain splatter out onto the pavement. Stiles heaves but manages to contain himself. This isn’t the worst thing he’s ever experienced, but it’s definitely up there.

“Looks like you’ve got your sample, doc,” Stiles says, aiming for sarcastic humor, but falling flat. “Want some help getting it inside?”

Deaton graciously accepts. After the get the body inside and onto Deaton’s table, the druid kindly offers the hose attached to the side of the building to get the majority of the blood off Stiles’ car. Stiles hoses the jeep off, then does his legs and feet to get most of the blood off. He’s starting to feel kind of numb, but knows that’s the shock setting in.

He calls his father to let him know that zombies are in Beacon Hills after he climbs behind the wheel. After reassuring John that he’s okay and that he wasn’t bitten, he starts the engine. Roscoe rumbles under him for a moment as he rests his forehead on the steering wheel. When he finally feels well enough to drive, he presses his foot to the gas and goes.

He goes to the only place he knows that seems logical in an illogical moment.

*

Peter takes one look at his face and lets him into the loft he’d taken up residence in just before they’d all graduated from high school. He lets Stiles pace back and forth. He can smell the blood and disease on the boy, but he knows that none of it belongs to Stiles, so he says nothing.

“I need you to give me everything you’ve got on combat magic,” Stiles finally says.

“Okay.”

Stiles stops pacing to stare at him. He’s seated on his sofa, eyes calm as he watches the younger man. Peter has always been willing to let Stiles dig into his collection of mystic tomes. He’s always held an interest in the guy who told an Alpha Wolf no and in the process _lied to his face_.

Peter respects Stiles in a capacity he doesn’t anyone else. Stiles has earned it.

“Okay?” Stiles feels the need to clarify.

“The world is going to hell, Stiles,” Peter says cordially. “And somehow I don’t think we can stop this one. We’re in it for the long haul. Adapt or die.”

“Right,” Stiles says. Of course. Peter’s survival is Peter’s first priority. While everyone else in the pack has been working to get home or lay in supplies, Peter’s been preparing in his own way. Ways that are probably multifaceted and deadly. “Right.”

“You’re an asset,” Peter tells him.

He’s an asset. He’s useful. He’s not just a hundred and forty-seven pounds of fragile bone and sarcasm. He’s twenty years old and a fully fledged spark. What he lacks in training he makes up for in sheer power. In spades. Having Stiles on his side, in Peter’s mind, is a tactically sound decision.

Getting Stiles the training he needs to be a true powerhouse is the best thing for them all.

Stiles collapses on the sofa next to the werewolf. The tension and stress bleed out of him enough for him to slump over into Peter’s side. Peter accepts his weight. Inhales the scent of the wild storm and ozone that has become Stiles as he’s grown into his Spark. They’ve put a lot of things behind them since the Nogitsune.

Since Stiles nearly killed Allison.

“We’re going to be okay, right?” Stiles asks, reminding Peter that while Stiles is a grown man with enough experience for two lifetimes, he’s still so very young.

“Even if we aren’t,” Peter tells him with the wisdom of a man fifteen years older, “we’ll manage. It’s what we do.”

It is what they do. They get by.

Stiles settles into Peter’s side. Takes the comfort the solidness of the murderous werewolf provides. If there’s anyone you want at your side, it’s a guy who is capable of (and has no qualms about) ripping people to shreds. A guys who holds little to no loyalty to anyone.

But Stiles has Peter’s respect. And Stiles respects Peter.

Peter is loyal to one.

*

It’s the small hours of the morning when the call comes in. There are roadblocks up all over Oakland. No one is going in or out. Lydia managed to get through before they closed the roads, but it looks like she’s going to need to stick to the back roads and off the interstate if she wants to make it back to Beacon Hills.

Scott pounds on Peter’s door, weirdly relieved that he knows where to find him. Even if that place is with a wolf he only reluctantly calls pack. Scott throws open the door and shoves his phone into Stiles’ hand.

“H’lo?” he mutters into it groggily.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice is shaking and higher than usual. It puts Stiles on alert, waking him instantly.

“What’s up?” he asks her, concerned.

“I can feel them dying, Stiles,” she says. Stiles can picture her now, face pale and knuckles white as she drives down some forgotten back highway. “I can feel them dying.”

“Okay, okay, we can deal with that,” Stiles says, scrambling up off the couch and heading for the stocked cabinet of spell ingredients that Peter keeps. His own personal supply is a floor down, and too far away for his liking at the moment. “We’ll make a blocking spell, it’ll be okay -”

“No, Stiles.” Lydia’s voice is stronger now. Certain. “Stiles, _I can feel them coming back_.”

Stiles stops moving. Scott and Peter stop pretending that they can’t hear both sides of the conversation. Stiles turns slowly. The three of them look at each other. When he speaks next, Stiles makes sure to enunciate clearly: “What do you need?”

“Aside from it to stop?” Lydia asks, voice acidic for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Can you make it here? Should Scott come meet you on the road and drive you in?”

What Stiles needs to know is how close Lydia is to collapsing due to the trauma of what she must be hearing. He can’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like to feel someone die and then _come back_ as an empty shell of what they used to be.

“I don’t know.”

Stiles digs in his pocket and tosses the jeep keys to Scott, who nods and heads for the door. “Okay, Scott’s on his way. He’ll be in the jeep. You know that rest stop just off highway fifty-seven? Can you make it there?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Get there, Scott will be there when you get there. He’s going to bring you home.”

“It doesn’t stop,” Lydia says, and now they can hear the tremor in it. “It never stops.”

“Yes it will,” Stiles says ferociously. “We’ll get you behind wards. I’ve got Peter with me, and I’ll call Deaton and _we will make it stop_.”

“Okay,” Lydia whispers, then hangs up.

Peter is already pulling books off the shelves. Stiles sets the phone down and then joins him.

*

He doesn’t want to do it, but the last six weeks since the video have taught Scott one thing: he has to kill. Wanting to or not, if he wants to live, if he wants his pack to live, he has to kill. There’s no choice now. Not in this world that is becoming right before their eyes.

When he gets to the rest stop he unearths the tire iron, and then he executes the small family of five that pulled over and turned. He doesn’t think about it. Lydia needs him. He does it quickly, efficiently. A single blow to the skull backed with werewolf strength. He drags the bodies behind the little blue Toyota, and moves the jeep to block the signs of carnage.

Then he waits.

It’s late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. After two in the morning, but not quite three yet. The night is clear, the stars shining in multitudes this far out from town. He gazes up at them while he waits.

He hears the sound of the engine and the tires on the road before the headlights come around the bend in the road. The car slows as it coasts off the exit toward the rest stop parking lot. Scott stops leaning on the jeep. The generic white Lexus rolls to a stop a few feet away. Lydia peers out into the night from behind the steering wheel. She’s pale, hair tousled and wild-looking. Scott moves out into the beam of the headlights, red Alpha eyes showing as he rounds the car.

The door opens.

Lydia pours herself out of the vehicle and into Scott’s arms.

She’s trembling, and so he holds her close and drains as much of the pain as he can.

*

“We should ward the entire building,” Stiles decides. He’s halfway through a book written in archaic Norse runes. He blinks owlishly to reorient himself when he looks up at the two men in the room with him. “I mean, warding is awesome, but we don’t know how long it will take to figure out a more portable, permanent solution.”

Comprehension dawns at the same time. Deaton voices it: “Why trap her in one of the lofts when we can at least give her the entire building?”

“Exactly.”

Outside the windows, the sun is beginning to rise. The edge of the sky is just starting to turn pale gray. There are stacks of books everywhere. Peter’s sitting at his laptop, going through the Hale digital archive. Each of them has their own notebook. Deaton looks like he’s about to fall asleep where he’s sitting.

“Think we’ve got enough to get started?” Stiles wonders, contemplating his notes.

“Probably,” Deaton replies, rising and stretching. He sighs heavily and rubs at the bridge of his nose, “It’s a start anyway. I know the building is already warded-” this is directed to Peter “-but it probably wouldn’t hurt to beef up the security. Especially if this is going to be home base for the foreseeable future.”

Peter nods. The suggestion is reasonable and sound. “I’ll get the rest ready if you guys want to get started. These things are best done in layers anyway.”

Stiles and Deaton gaze at each other for a few drawn out seconds before they snap out of their stupor and start gathering what they need. The wards they can lay down now aren’t all-encompassing, and they’ll need to be tweaked, but it should be enough to dampen the psychic echoes Lydia’s been getting.

It’s a start; and a start is better than nothing.

Stiles takes the bag of supplies that Peter offers him and slings it over his shoulder. When Peter offers him a baseball bat and a significant look, Stiles can’t help the tiny smile that crosses his face. “Thanks,” he says softly.

“Be careful,” Peter tells him.

He doesn't tell Stiles to watch out for the dead. He doesn’t need to.

*

It’s John that brings in the news. He’s the sheriff of an entire county, so he gets the information before it breaks on what is now intermittent news. He wanders into the loft he’s sharing with son to find him sitting on the couch with Lydia cradled in his arms. Neither of them is asleep, but they’re both too exhausted to be truly awake.

John blinks at them, in much the same state as they are, then says, “They’re bombing Oakland.”

The announcement sucks the oxygen from the room. They stare at him.

“They’re also bombing San Francisco and L.A.”

John toes himself out of his boots, and sets his gun belt on the table with a heavy thunk. He sits on the couch heavily and rubs a hand down his face. Lydia, surprisingly, is the one that moves first. She pulls herself away from Stiles’ side and crosses the scant space between herself and the man most of the Pack considers Father. He lets her tuck herself under his arm. She pulls Stiles after her so that she’s sandwiched between the two Stilinski men.

“My mother is dead,” she says into the silence.

Stiles and John both reflexively tighten their grips. Lydia, for the first time since the dead began to walk, feels a margin of safety. It’s enough for all three of them to fall asleep.

*

By the time morning comes, John is gone again. He’s recharged on three hours of sleep and a cup of coffee so strong a horseshoe would have stood up on its own in the pot. Stiles lays in a couple of extra wards on the loft and settles Lydia into the second bedroom. He leaves her to sleep and makes his way upstairs to the loft that Peter is occupying. It only makes sense for it to become central command for now. It’s where all the books and supplies are.

Derek’s is being used as an armory for now, at least, until he gets back with Cora.

Scott is on the phone when Stiles gets there. Deaton is nowhere to be seen, so Stiles assumes he’s gone back to the clinic and his dead zombie. He wanders across the room to the kitchen where Isaac is sleepily spooning cereal into his mouth. He grunts a hello at Stiles, who grunts back. Isaac spent most of the night gathering and taking inventory of all their supplies.

They’re going to need them.

Stiles fixes himself a bowl and sits down at the counter next to Isaac, “Where’s Peter?”

“Scott sent him to get some sleep,” Isaac tells him.

Scott chooses that moment to hang up the phone. He’s frowning in concern, but has enough energy to quirk a smile at Stiles. “How’s Lydia?” he asks.

“Sleeping. I put an extra layer of wards on the loft this morning; it should help.” Stiles pushes his bowl toward Scott, who takes it and begins to eat the rest of the cereal. “The whole building has basic wards now, but I’m going to recommend another layer, and proximity wards set for zombies and hostiles at least a mile in all directions.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Have you got the juice for that?”

Stiles shakes his head, “It’s not the juice. I’ve got plenty of power, it’s that I’m still in training. And we’ve got to tweak the wards for the situation. There isn’t a book called _The Zombie Apocalypse Book of Wards_.”

“Your sarcasm gets meaner when you’re tired.”

‘You knew that already.”

“Who was on the phone?” Isaac asks, cutting off the argument before it starts.

“Danny finally got through. They got out of LA just in time to watch the army napalm it. He’s got the twins with him, but traffic is so bad it might be tomorrow or the next day before they get here.”

All three of them are relieved. No one had heard from Danny since Scott had recalled everyone. As far as they could tell, the rioting in LA had been worse than almost anywhere else. It was good to know that they were okay and on their way.

“Jackson called,” Stiles says. “Lydia was out, so I answered it. They’re grounding flights all over the country. His plane got diverted to Boston.”

“Is he going to be able to get out of the city?” Scott asks in concern. The cities are so much closer together on the east coast. It means a denser population, which means more zombies, which means more opportunity to die.

“He’s going to rent a car,” Stiles says. “Somehow I don’t think Jackson has any qualms about stealing a car if he has to.”

The trio exchange amused expressions. Jackson is hilarious in his ability to be a douche when that ability isn’t pointed at them. He’s mellowed a lot since becoming a wolf. The move to London had helped too, though he’s remained a member of the McCall pack despite the distance.

“I’m going to check on Deaton and then head to the hospital and see Mom, you guys okay to keep going on the inventory?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says. “Chris told me where to find the spare key. He and Allison hired a small airplane, but if they’re grounding flights they might have to come by car. I’m gonna get the Argent armory moved over here before things get really bad.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? It is going to get bad, and they all know it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once." - William Shakespeare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the deaths begin. I don't want to spoil anything, so I will just say that I tried to make the story work without the one death, but I couldn't work around it and have certain things happen. I had to, and I cried doing it.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Two: _

 

Seven weeks. Seven weeks and the world is dying. Melissa McCall slumps against the wall. The chaos of the ER flows around her as she breathes. Her scrubs are blue and spattered with blood. She hasn’t slept in two days, and the last thing she ate was a stale granola bar she found in one of the drawers at the nurse’s station.

She’s so tired.

“Melissa!”

She flinches and looks away from the fluorescent lights overhead to search out Dr. Wright, who looks just as worn down as she does. They blink at each other for a second, then Dr. Wright continues, “We’re being ordered to evacuate.”

“What?” Melissa demands, straightening.

Wright’s mouth is a grim line, “All non-essential personnel and all the patients. The number of infected is more than we can handle. They just keep showing up.”

Melissa can read between the lines. They’ve taken in too many people who have been bitten by a neighbor or loved one. Too many are dying and turning. The army can’t dispose of the infected bodies quickly enough. As a trauma center, Beacon Hills Hospital draws in too many bodies, and is being overrun from the inside out.

“How long until transport arrives?” Melissa asks. She’s already running through the patient lists in her head. Which nurses will be willing to go with their patients, which ones she’ll need to let go home to their families.

“We’ve got four hours,” Wright tells her grimly.

“Right,” Melissa says. “Let’s get started.”

*

“Sheriff!”

John turns away from the army captain and the map of the county he’s got spread across the hood of his Humvee. Deputy Jordan Parrish shoves past a couple of the guardsmen with a grim look on his face.

“What is it?” John asks, already forgetting to play nicely. Beacon County has been his jurisdiction for twenty years. The army can take a leap for all he cares. No one tells him how to do his job.

“The roadblock on 91 has been overrun,” Parrish says.

Case in point.

“Right, that’s it.” John scowls and sends a sideways glare at the captain, “Pull everybody back. I want patrols on the street, two men to a car. We’ve got to contain the rioting.”

“Sheriff-”

John raises a hand to stop Captain Wilke right there. “We’ll deal with the rioting, you get the dead contained. Divide and conquer, Captain.”

Wilke looks like he wants to protest, but John raises an eyebrow and gives him the patented Stilinski Stare of Doom(™) and he wilts. “Right,” he says. “Divide and conquer.”

To be perfectly honest, John doesn’t give a shit  _ what  _ the army does, so long as they stay out of his way. He turns and heads toward Parrish’s patrol car with the deputy by his side. “We’ll set up another roadblock at mile ten off Coomb Road,” he tells the man whose middle name might as well be competent. Jordan nods. “If we don’t contain this now, we’ll never be able to.”

He’s right, and every deputy knows it as his orders go wide over the radio.

The army can delude itself into thinking they’ve got the situation under control all the way. The Beacon County Sheriff’s Department knows better. Disaster management and containment. Save as many as they can. It’s all they can do.

*

It starts to rain. It’s not a bad storm, just the kind of lingering drizzle that feels oppressive. The sky is a flat, slate gray. The parking lot of the hospital is cluttered with ambulances and military vehicles. Patients and personnel are being loaded up one and two at a time from the ambulance bay.

Scott has never seen chaos like this, not even back when the Alpha Pack attacked the hospital, or Stiles when he was possessed by the Nogitsune. This is purely human chaos. There are concrete barriers put up around the lot, and men in camouflage gear walking around with high-powered rifles strapped to their chests and grenades in their pockets.

Back then, there had been a sort of eerie calm over the chaos. Like the world was holding its breath while it waited for the supernatural monsters to crawl back under the bed. Now it’s like the whole world is screaming.

There are people everywhere, but none of the dead.

Scott hopes it will stay that way a while longer.

*

“Melissa!”

Rafael McCall pushes through the crowd toward his ex-wife. She turns to face him, confusion marring her features. He gets in range and sets a hand on her arm, looking relieved, “We’ve got to get out of here, Mel.”

“I thought you guys already left?” She asks, confused.

“I’m not leaving you. Or Scott,” he says. “Not again.”

The expression on her face softens a little bit, then the worried crease between her eyebrows deepens. “What’s wrong?”

“We have to get out.” He glances around. What he’s about to say he’s been ordered not to reveal. “The army’s not killing them when they come back, Mel.”

“What?!” she demands, looking aghast. Rafael winces at the tone in her voice. That tone never boded well for anyone in his experience. “What have they been doing with them?”

“You know that ward on the fourth floor they shut down for remodeling?”

"They didn’t.”

Rafael just looks at her. There’s no point in trying to defend or contradict the conclusion she’s coming to. The army had started burning the bodies of the newly dead out in the west parking lot weeks ago. She’s seen the smoke, smelled it.

“Why are they not destroying them all?”

The FBI Agent gives her a look, “It’s the government, they have to look like they’re doing something. I don’t think they have the personnel to get rid of all of them before they turn. Not with the way that Captain is trying to micromanage the Sheriff.”

Rafael doesn’t  _ like  _ Sheriff Stilinski, but even he can admit that the man doesn’t  _ need  _ managing. He’s the definition of competent. With werewolves and hunters and any other myriad of supernatural creatures venturing into Beacon Hills, he’s had to be. Stilinski might be the only man capable of really mounting any kind of defense.

“So they’ve been shoving them away? No wonder they’re so keen to evacuate the hospital,” Melissa looks around, then pulls Rafael into the corner, lowering her voice. “How long do we have until they break containment?”

He thinks about it. “If those doors hold another hour it’ll be a miracle.”

“Right.” Melissa grabs the radio clipped to her ID badge and speaks into it, “This is McCall, I need a status report.”

One after the other, each nurse in charge of evacuating a department reports in. Most of the floors have been cleared. Pediatrics, Maternity, and surgical wards had been cleared out first. The long term and psychiatric wards were moving out now. The other, smaller departments had stopped intake weeks ago. If it wasn’t necessary, the hospital had told people not to come in.

“It looks like it’s mostly just the ER left,” Melissa decides. She feels relieved, but there’s a reason why the emergency department had been saved for last. They still have patients coming in off the street. They’re operating under quarantine protocols. Melissa has never seen so much ripped and torn flesh in her entire life, and she’s witnessed some pretty gruesome stuff since Scott was bitten.

“We can’t wait, we need to go,” Rafael reiterates.

She can tell he’s terrified, but, “I’m not abandoning my patients, Rafe. I can’t.”

“Right.” He nods. “Right. I’ll keep an eye on the doors. Half an hour, Melissa. Half an hour and we’re leaving.”

“Half an hour.”

*

“Cut them off!” John yells. He’s out of the car, pumping off shotgun rounds into the zombies going after the group of rioting civilians. Some of them have the guts to fight back, but they’re mostly only adding to the carnage. There are at least twenty of the dead.

It might as well be a hundred.

Several more patrol cars howl to a stop, expelling officers who start doing their best to pick off the dead ones. It’s a hard task with them mixed in with the fleeing living. John spins the rifle, using the butt of the weapon as a club that cracks into the skull of the walker reaching for him. He drops the rifle, useless now that it’s empty.

“Remember, get them in the head!” Parrish calls over the din.

John fires several shots from his service pistol. Humphrey goes down with a horrific shriek of pain that quickly tapers off into a bloody gurgle before the deputy is no longer visible. John pulls a zombie off one of his deputies, and the deputy shoots it.

“Where the hell are the army guys?” Meyers demands angrily.

John doesn’t know, but they can certainly use some of their heavy weapons right now. A riot shield appears in front of the Sheriff. Meyers plants himself firmly in front of his boss, shoving back against the zombies trying to get to them. Several more deputies dressed in riot gear have arrived, having abandoned their posts to help. Who cares if someone steals some tvs when the dead are eating people?

“Thanks,” John grunts and pulls out his nightstick, proceeding to bash in some poor bastard’s skull.

Parrish appears at his elbow. He’s reloaded the rifle, and he’s unpacked the sniper rifle he keeps in the trunk of his patrol car. “You dropped this.”

The rifle stock is covered in blood. John takes it anyway.

*

Scott doesn’t know when the screaming starts. One second, it’s all controlled chaos. The next people are screaming, and he can smell it. Dead human has a distinctive scent. There are zombies loose in the hospital. People are screaming and shoving to get away. To live and to save their own lives. The few soldiers who are stationed in the building go down like dominoes.

Then the shooting starts outside.

Scott starts to shove his way through the crowd against the flow of traffic. He has to find his mom. He has to find her. He shoves back against the fleeing patients and hospital staff. Then he sees a flash of dark, curly hair.

“Mom!”

He loses sight of her in the crush of bodies, and by the time he’s pushed through to where he saw her, the door to the stairs is shutting and there’s a dead zombie on the ground, skull bashed in. Scott follows his mother’s footprints and scent into the stairwell.

The moaning and groaning of a multitude of zombies is magnified in the stairwell. For a bit, he can’t hear anything but the shuffle of feet and the smacking impact of flesh as a couple of zombies fall down from several stories up. Then he hears it, swearing and something metal clanging against concrete.

“MOM!” he yells.

“Scott?!” Melissa’s head appears two levels up. “Go back, Scott!”   


“What are you doing?” he yells back at her, ignoring the order.

“Your father-” her statement is cut off as she grapples with a zombie.

Scott pulls himself up onto the banister, eyes flashing red, and launches himself upward. Claws gouge into the concrete of the wall, and he hauls himself up onto the ledge next to Melissa. He grabs the zombie pinning his mother to the stairs and yanks it back over the edge. It hits the ground below headfirst.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly as he hops off the banister.

Melissa sits up, nodding shakily. There’s a bloody fire extinguisher on the ground, the source of the clang. She’s covered in blood, and her hair is starting to look wild. She grabs his arm. “Scott, your father was coming down from the fourth floor.”

“The elevator?” he asks, uncertain.

“The power went out ten minutes ago.”

A gunshot echoes sharply through the stairwell. A body tumbles down the stairs, past the two McCalls crouched by the wall. The zombie rolls to a stop, bloody and broken, a neat hole in the center of its forehead.

“Run!” a voice yells, and Rafael follows it. He clatters down the steps from the floor above, leaping down two steps at a time. “Get up!” he yells. “We gotta go!”

Behind the Agent comes the stench of the dead and the telltale sound of things stumbling down steps. The door leading onto the the third floor thumps ominously. The fire extinguisher rolls over once.

Scott grabs his mother’s hand, pulls her to her feet, and they run. Heading the only direction they can: down.

“Dad!” Scott yells back up to where his father is rounding the landing to the third floor.

“Go!” his father yells back. “I’m coming!”

He hits the landing. The door gives. Melissa screams from the landing below. Rafael gets two shots off before they’re on him. They’re pouring out the door from the corridor and stumbling down the steps from above.   


“Dad!” Scott yells again.

Rafael turns his head just enough to look at his son, “Get your mother out of here, Scott! Go!”

Scott could reach his father in time, but the stairwell is too tight. He wouldn’t be able to fight like he would in open space. There are too many of them anyway. Father and son look each other in the eyes, and Rafael nods at him, quirking a little smile in his son’s direction as he grapples with the creatures trying to eat him.

“Look after your mother,” he finally says.

Scott nods and turns, leading Melissa down and away.

Several more shots ring out.

They don’t look back, but they can hear the screaming when it starts.

*

Captain Ed Wilke is a good man. The men under his command generally think well of him. He is reliable, thoughtful and capable. No one blames him for doing what he was ordered to do. He has orders to maintain the roadblocks into and out of Beacon Hills. To hold the hospital and work with the local police to keep the rioting to a minimum.

No one had warned Wilke about the local Sheriff though.

Sheriff John Stilinski had taken one look at Wilke, his men, their heavy weapons and armored vehicles and snorted. Sheriff John Stilinski considered Wilke and his platoon of highly trained soldiers to be green and not worth much. Sheriff John Stilinski was in charge, no matter what Wilke’s orders were.

Sheriff John Stilinski was right.

“Sir, the Sheriff and most of his men are pinned down on State Street. They’re resorting to hand to hand. Civilians are still fleeing the area.”

“How many dead?”

“Unknown.” Sergeant Puller, who is usually unflappable, looks frustrated, “Too many bodies on the ground to tell.”

“Let’s go,” Wilke says, and climbs into the Humvee.

The vehicle roars to life, and it heads down the street toward where the men and women of the Sheriff’s Department look to be holding their last stand. Another Humvee follows closely behind. Wilke wishes it was one with a fifty mounted in the bed, but it isn’t.

They’ll make do. They always do.

*

They have to keep moving. The parking lot is empty now. The only movement is from the milling of a few scattered zombies. Melissa feels glad for the rain coming down on them. It helps to hide her tears as she tugs her son toward her car. He digs in his pockets for his keys, as hers were left behind, and there’s no going back for them.

Beacon Hills Hospital belongs to the dead now.

Scott lets out a noise. A low, distressed keening. Melissa turns to her son and ignores that they’re both getting soaked, ignores that she’s covered in blood, and pulls her grown child into her arms. He stands there next to her little gold car, shaking. Melissa’s tears mingle with the rain on her face as she holds onto her son.

Rafael had been trying to be part of Scott’s life. He’d been succeeding the last few years even. He was a good man.

“Do you think he’ll turn?” Scott chokes out.

Melissa swallows hard. “I think we can’t think about it.”

*

John hears the Humvees roll up, sees the soldiers pour out of the vehicles. Watches the muzzle flash from the rifles. He already knows it’s too late. There are too many. He continues to fight anyway. He has to try to survive this. For himself, for Stiles.

If he goes, Stiles will feel alone in the world.

“What do you need?” Wilke yells as he takes on a zombie whose insides are outside.

One of the soldiers slips in a puddle and goes down with a yell. The yell becomes screaming as the dead descend on him.

“A way out!” John yells back.

There is no way out. There are still civilians fleeing. The dead are waking up and rising to join the rest. John’s deputies keep falling. Meyers and the other two with riot shields are flagging for taking the brunt of it while the rest try to attack from behind what little cover they can. The flow of the battle has stopped progressing down the street with the arrival of the soldiers, but it won’t last.

This is a battle they can’t win. And they can’t stop. Stopping is death.

Wilke meets his gaze solemnly. He already knows what John knows too. He fights his way across to where John, Meyers and Parrish are making their stand. “I’ve got about two pounds of C-4 and a few grenades,” he says.

Meyers grunts with the strain of holding back the tide. Parrish stabs another walker in the head with the steel bar he’d picked up somewhere. Meyers grits his teeth and pushes back against the crush of bodies, “Let’s take as many of these bastards with us as we can, Boss.”

Parrish nods grimly, but doesn’t say anything.

John looks around at the few men still standing, and he can see the acceptance of their deaths in their eyes, even as they continue to fight. He can’t be prouder of them if he tries. They are the best people he could ever ask to fight beside.

“How long do you need?” he asks Wilke.

“Thirty seconds.”

*

Across town in a converted loft, Lydia Martin sits straight up in bed, her eyes wide. Then, she lets out an ear-splitting wailing scream.

Downtown a fireball erupts into the sky with an earth-shaking boom. Billows of black smoke roll up into the darkening sky.

Everything goes quiet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, the last of the Hales return home, finding along the way a strangely naked man walking along the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, Jordan Parrish is not a hellhound. Because that's stupid. He's also not a phoenix, because that's cliche. Not telling what he is. Also, so reiterate, I messed with the ages a bit, so Mason and Liam are 15 and Malia is 17. Everyone else is around 20ish (unless they are canonically older than the pack)
> 
>  **WARNING:** graphic description of a panic attack in this chapter.

**Worn Our Shoes**

_Three:_

 

Jordan Parrish groans as he comes back to consciousness. His whole body is one long, slow ache. Every movement sends throbbing pains all along his extremities. He rolls onto his hands and knees, the remainder of his uniform crumbling to dust around him. He remains on his hands and knees for a few minutes, swaying with vertigo. Then, achingly, he climbs to his feet.

Staring out at the carnage around him, he can hardly believe his eyes. There are bodies and rubble everywhere. There’s a crater in the street where Stilinski and the army Captain had been standing when the explosion happened. The fire hydrant on the curb has been blasted apart, and water is geysering up into the air at speed.

Everything is blackened and burnt, the smell of burnt flesh prevalent even over the scent of melted rubber and overheated metal. Everything but Jordan.

Jordan looks down at his hands, turning them over to gaze at the backs. He’s naked as the day he was born, with not a scratch anywhere on his body. He’s covered in soot, but otherwise the way he’s feeling would suggest too much drink and a dare gone wrong. Not this. Not being the untouched sole survivor at the epicenter of a gigantic explosion.

The entire block is blown out windows and burned out shop fronts.

But Jordan stands undamaged. How long has it been? Hours? Days?

He looks at his hands again, lips pulling down into a frown. “What am I?”

*

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe_.

The room tilts, and Stiles sways on his feet. He staggers a couple of steps toward the wall but doesn’t make it. Distantly he can hear someone talking to him, but he can’t make out the words. His Dad. His Dad is gone. There is no more Dad. No more hugs that make him feel safe. No more arguing over what they eat. No more parent looking out for him. No more.

He’s on his own. He’s _alone_.

Oh god. He can’t breathe.

“Stiles. Stiles!”

Hands grip his shoulders and guide him to the ground. Warm hands, living hands. He’s pulled into a body. Hard and masculine and solid and real. He heaves in a gasping breath as the deep, earthy scent of dandelion root reaches him. He knows that scent. Knows the voice telling him to breathe. He gasps again, clutches at the arms holding him with grasping fingers.

“Feel my breaths, Stiles. Breathe with me.”

The chest pressed into his back moves forward and back, an exaggerated deep breath. Stiles tries to mimic it. He tilts his head to the side and lets it drop. Turns his face toward the neck, presses his head to the clavicle. Heart beating under him. One. Two. Three. Ba-dum, ba-dum.

“That’s it.” Peter’s voice breaks through the fog of panic in his head. “Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

Stiles moves to claw at his chest, but Peter intercepts the hand, “It hurts. Peter, it hurts.”

“I know,” is whispered into his hair. “I know.”

There is no consolation. No fixing it. John Stilinski is dead, and the tangible, mystical bond between him and his only child is gone. Burnt and reduced to nothing. Stiles’ eyes close, and the first of the tears fall. Peter tightens his grip on him and looks up at the red haired woman curled up on the bed, watching them with wide, sad eyes.

“I know,” he murmurs again, this time to the inconsolable banshee.

*

Isaac is waiting in the lee of the doorstep when Melissa and Scott arrive at the lofts. He’s wearing a scarf around his neck and his hands are jammed inside his pockets. When the Alpha reaches the door and spots him, his shoulders hunch.

“What happened?” Scott asks.

Isaac can sense the grief pouring off of Scott and his mother, but there’s no way around what has happened. No way to let Scott be the only one grieving. He swallows hard, “The Sheriff’s dead.”

“How?” Melissa asks, dreading the answer.

“That big explosion downtown,” Isaac explains. “Lydia-”

“Lydia felt it?” Scott demands. “Where’s Stiles?”

“Upstairs… it’s bad.”

Scott nods and heads for the stairs quickly. Melissa heaves a sigh, watching her son go. Isaac eyes her. “You okay?”

She shakes her head. “We lost two fathers today.”

“Oh,” Isaac doesn’t know what else to say. He was relieved when his father was killed. Stiles’ relationship with John had been like a fairy tale to the tall beta. Scott’s had been a little more real, with more give and take to it. Both relationships had their problems, but that hadn’t mean that Isaac envied them less. He wraps his arms around the woman who basically took him in and finished raising him. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Me too, baby,” Melissa says. She holds back the tears that threaten, now is not the time. Two of her children are upstairs and in pain. And that doesn’t count the stress Lydia is under. She pulls away and smiles up at Isaac, who has always loved it when she calls him baby. “Let’s go see your brothers.”

“Okay,” he says, and makes sure to bolt the door behind them.

*

“Who’s this idiot?”

Derek leans forward over the steering wheel to look at what Cora is seeing. He presses on the brake pedal a bit to slow down the car. There’s a man walking down the street in the half light of dusk, naked as a jaybird. He’s strolling like he hasn’t got a care. Or a clue.

As the vehicle passes him, Derek recognizes the shoulders and jaw line and stomps on the brakes.

“What the hell, Derek?” Cora demands with a glare when she’s jolted forward into the dash.

“I think that’s Jordan Parrish,” Derek says, ignoring his sister when she demands ‘Who?’ He throws the car into park and climbs out of the machine, leaving it and his sibling to idle on the pavement. “Deputy Parrish?” he calls to the man on the sidewalk. When he gets no answer he calls loudly: “Jordan!”

The naked man turns, dazed. He’s obviously in shock, but his blue eyes begin to clear when they meet Derek’s concerned green ones. Derek takes a few steps toward the man, “You okay?”

Jordan Parrish’s gaze sharpens. He recognizes Derek, sees past the man to the wolf he knows is there. He needs the pack. The pack can help him figure this out. “Not even remotely,” he tells the other man.

“Derek,” Cora hisses out the open car door. A glance back reveals that she’s holding a jacket out toward him. He reaches back and takes it, then turns and offers it to the deputy. Jordan takes it and wraps it around his waist.

“Can I take you somewhere?”

“Yes. Back to the lofts,” Jordan decides. He’d been resisting moving into them with the rest, but now sees that trying to hold onto that bit of normal isn’t going to help him in the long run. “I need to. I need.”

“Yeah, okay,” Derek says slowly, then sort of guides Jordan into the back seat of the blue Toyota SUV. The deputy climbs in, and Derek congratulates himself again on the practicality of the vehicle he’d replaced the Camaro with after it died a horrible death. Once Jordan is settled, Derek gets back behind the wheel.

Cora has twisted in her seat and is watching the man. Derek remembers that she’s never actually met Parrish. “Cora, this is Deputy Parrish, he’s pack. Jordan, this is my sister, Cora.”

“You’re naked,” Cora says instead of saying hello.

“Yeah,” Parrish replies ironically. “I lost a few things in the fire.”

Derek pulls away from the curb, and hopes that the fire the man is talking about is metaphorical and not literal. It wouldn’t be on par with his track record, but he hopes anyway.

*

Stiles presses himself tighter into Peter as the bed dips. He makes a protesting noise when Lydia pulls away, but that is cut off when another body presses into the gap she left. The familiar warm chocolate scent of Scott hits him, and so he opens his eyes. Scott is staring back at him, his eyes filled with the same pain that Stiles himself feels.

“My dad’s dead,” Stiles tells his oldest friend.

“Mine too,” his friend says back.

Lydia’s hand appears in Stiles’ field of vision over Scott’s side as she curls up against the Alpha’s back. Stiles takes it in his own and squeezes. She squeezes back. “The world’s really ending, isn’t it?” she asks, voice muffled in the back of Scott’s shirt.

Peter’s grip on Stiles tightens and he growls. It’s low, less menacing than usual. It’s more like a defensive growl that indicates that the world is going to have to claw Stiles, and by proxy the others, out of his cold dead hands. It’s actually kind of comforting.

Silence reigns for a bit until there’s movement in the doorway. “Found them,” Isaac’s voice says softly.

“Oh, boys,” Melissa says gently, then climbs up onto the bed, right into the mass of limbs. Scott and Stiles shuffle to the sides to let her into the middle of the pile, where she sits against the headboard and wraps her arms around them both. They each wrap an arm around her, and then the tears come. She doesn’t hush them, she just lets them cry.

She lets her own tears fall.

Isaac sits on the end of the bed to take his boots off, then carefully crawls up and wraps himself around Lydia’s back at the edge of the bed. It’s a queen sized bed, but it was never made to fit six fully grown adults. Isaac’s watchful gaze meets Peter’s over the heads of the mourning and pained group between them.

For the first time they seem to understand each other.

*

Alan Deaton strips off his gloves one at a time. He’s exhausted, but he’s got part of the puzzle now. It doesn’t lend any hints to how to stop the spread of the plague and prevent the dead from rising, but at least now he _knows_ . At least knows the _how_ , even if the _why_ still eludes him.

How this happened is useful, it gives them an advantage. Reveals exactly what they’re dealing with. Horrifying as the answer is, it should help them all deal with what the world is like now, and how it will be later. Right now, that’s all anyone can ask for.

The dead zombie is laid out on his table, cut to pieces. There are tools and vials of obscure mystical ingredients all over the room. He hasn’t done this sort of spell work since he was an apprentice druid. He’d forgotten how draining and involved it can be. He doesn’t have a natural Spark like Stiles.

The bell above the front door of the clinic clangs as something rattles it. Deaton pulls himself out of his thoughtful stupor, turning to look at the doorway that leads to the front of the clinic.

The door rattles again.

The sole occupant of the kennel starts to howl.

Deaton heads for the door.

There is a man with gravity-defying black hair and wild eyes on the other side of the door. He’s got several teenagers huddled around him. He says something to the biggest one, who hefts a crowbar up and takes a defensive stance toward the street. Deaton rushes over and quickly unlocks it, pulling it open so that the man and his passel of teenagers can scramble through it. As soon as the last of them is through he closes and locks it.

Just in time for several zombies to collide with the reinforced glass, trying to get at them.

“Thanks for that,” the man says, panting. Deaton recognizes him, he teaches at the high school. “Yours was the only building with the lights on.”

“Of course,” Deaton says, then adds: “I wouldn’t go back there if I were you.”

The two younger boys stop before they reach the doorway leading toward the kennel where the dog is still howling. They look at each other and then the pale, blue eyed one asks “Why?”

“You won’t like what you see,” Deaton tells him reasonably.

The other boy, the one with skin the same shade as Marin’s asks, “But the dog?”

Bobby Finstock and Alan Deaton exchange a look. Deaton’s is warning, because Bobby might not know exactly what goes bump in the night, but it’s not because he’s inobservant or stupid. It’s because he doesn’t _want_ to know. Bobby’s expression tells him that these are teenagers, and Deaton should know better than to try to stop them by now.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Deaton tells the two boys mildly.

He isn’t disappointed when loud disgusted noises echo out of the next room, in fact, he’s vaguely amused. When the other two teenagers eyeball him warily, he says in that mild tone he uses: “I warned them.”

“What’s back there,” the girl asks, eyes suspicious and flicking toward the door.

“One of the dead ones,” Deaton tells her delicately. The reaction is instantaneous, all three of his guests go on alert and turn toward the door. Deaton waves a hand, “Don’t worry, Stiles crushed its skull.”

The teens might not know who Stiles is, but Finstock does. He snorts, “Of course it was Stilinski. You get anything from it?”

“A few answers, more questions,” Deaton says as the two teens go after the younger ones. The dog has stopped howling. He waits until they vanish through the door to look at Finstock and ask: “Their parents?”

Bobby shakes his head, “Gone. I found them hiding out at the school.”

Deaton nods. “We’re at the lofts, the converted ones on Fifth. They’re guarded in more ways than one. There’s plenty of space.”

Bobby nods, “Better friendly wolves than the shuffling dead, I say.” He’s good at playing ignorant, not stupid. “We’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“They’re going to want to keep the dog.”

“Naturally.”

*

“Home sweet hole in the wall,” Cora announces as Derek parks the SUV next to Stiles’ Jeep. They both peer out the windscreen at the big nondescript building for a few seconds. “It looks more depressing than last time.”

“At least there isn’t a bell tower,” Derek decides. They’d learned their lesson about bell towers two years ago. Up until then, gargoyles hadn’t been a thing. Now they are, and they don’t like werewolves.

“True,” Cora replies. “Let’s go in.”

They open their doors simultaneously, but pause halfway out of the vehicle when Parrish doesn’t move to exit. They both lean inside to peer at him with identical raised eyebrows.

“How am I supposed to tell Stiles that his Dad is dead?” Parrish finally asks.

Derek feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “What?” he chokes out.

Parrish turns haunted eyes on the wolf, “You didn’t see the fireball?”

“We saw it,” Cora states, frowning. “We just didn’t know anyone was there.”

“We were being swarmed, we weren’t going to make it,” Parrish says. “The Sheriff decided that instead of becoming one of those things, that he was going to take as many with him as he could. We all agreed.”

“But you survived,” Derek prompts.

“I don’t know how.”

Which is why the two Hales found him wandering around downtown in naught but his skin. Derek’s eyebrows scrunch in a frown, the fire Jordan had mentioned wasn’t metaphorical at all. He exchanges a look with his sister, then closes his door and opens Jordan’s. He reaches in to draw the deputy out.

“Is Lydia here?”

“Yes.”

“Then Stiles already knows,” Derek tells him matter of factly.

Cora gets their gear out of the back of the car and appears at their sides. “Come on,” she tells them. “Let’s find you some clothes, dude.”

“Right,” Jordan says, sounding vaguely dazed. “Clothes.” He clutches the jacket protecting his modesty tighter.

“Not that you’re not nice to look at,” Cora assures him, putting on a leer and looking him up and down deliberately, “but you kinda smell like a campfire and burning tires.”

This comment gets Jordan to crack a smile and shuffle toward the door with smaller strides than usual so as not to dislodge the coat. Cora fistbumps her brother when he offers. He takes his duffel and they follow the lone deputy into the building.

“The view from the back is nice too!” Cora calls with a grin. “Please, keep walking.”

Jordan stumbles into the doorframe. Cora cackles, and even Derek laughs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finstock and his teenaged charges settle in with the Pack. The mystery of how it all happened is solved, but it only raises more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to shove a lot of world building into your noggin.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional in any capacity. This is me messing with the stuff other zombie movies/shows have said with my headcanons for magic in this verse and hoping it sounds reasonable. Also, yes, some of the theory here was borrowed from the Walking Dead.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Four: _

 

Mason Hewitt used to think that the worst thing that could happen to him would be that Mike Lawrence would never notice him and he’d spend the next three years of high school obscure and boyfriendless. In the grand scheme of things, he supposes he had it pretty good. He’d had good parents who were supportive of their gay son. He had good grades. He had a pretty awesome best friend.

Then the dead started to walk and everything vanished.

Well, he’s still got the awesome best friend, but if Liam’s anger management issues were bad  _ before  _ he had to bash in his own parents skulls, they’re galaxy sized now.

Mason feels pretty content to just pet the gray-brown dog they’d found in the back of the vet’s office and just go along with it for now. The dog is exceptionally friendly, with huge doe eyes and enough pitbull in him to make him an aggressive cuddler. Mason thinks the rest of him must be labrador, but don’t quote him.

Liam lets Coach explain that Doctor Deaton’s got a safe place for them to go. He frowns angrily, but he does everything angrily these days. They wait while Deaton disposes of the body in the exam room. They leave through the back door, and no one says anything when Mason brings the dog with them.

The drive to wherever they’re going is tense. There are no seats in the back of the vet’s van, he obviously uses it to transport animals, not people. The dog deposits himself across Mason and Liam’s laps for the ride.

Liam’s demand of “Where are we going?” gets an enigmatic “Somewhere safe” that makes the other boy practically growl. Mason elbows him with raised eyebrows. Mason doesn’t care if they’re going to be sleeping in a hole in the ground so long as the walkers can’t get in. A glance over at Taylor and Malia reveals that they mostly agree.

Safety trumps nearly everything these days.

Has it really only been seven weeks, nearly eight? It feels like a lifetime.

Deaton pulls off the road, and something zips through Mason like an electric shock or random shiver. Then the van slows to a halt and the vet says, “Home sweet home.”

They all climb out of the van. The dog presses itself to Mason’s leg, and Mason doesn’t blame him. At the edge of the parking lot are several of the dead ones. They seem to just be standing there, but then one of them takes a stumbling step forward and stops, like it’s pressing against something. Liam and Mason exchange a surprised look.

“Oh, good,” Deaton remarks, noticing the walkers too, “they finished getting the barrier up.”

“ _ Barrier _ ?” Malia mouths, eyebrows raised. Taylor shrugs his massive shoulders, and they all follow Deaton and Coach toward the building.

It’s a nondescript warehouse. A little run down on the outside. The sort of place that looks like it’s been forgotten in the last decade. When Deaton leads them inside it’s very quickly obvious that the inside hasn’t been forgotten. There’s a little office to one side with monitors lined up with views from cameras surrounding the entire compound. No one’s sitting in the room.

The hallway has two doors on the right and one on the left. The door closest to the entrance is open, revealing a sparse living space. It’s a converted loft apartment, furnished, but not occupied. The other two doors are closed, but Mason figures they’re probably apartments too. Deaton leads them to the end of the hallway and up a set of stairs. There are four doors on the second floor, all of them are open.

“Alan? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Deaton calls, “I’ve brought guests.”

He leads them into the first loft on the left and the teens stutter to a stop to stare at the group within. Coach stops too, but he actually enters the room before he does. The dog has no compunctions and ambles gamely into the room and right up to a gorgeous red haired woman sitting curled up in an armchair.

The kitchen is open to the living area, giving the teens a view of a man and woman working in sync to prepare a meal. There’s a tall, curly haired guy seated at the bar counter chopping up whatever the woman places in front of him. There’s another man at the table, which is positively covered with books. His hair is standing on end, and he’s got a manic air about him.

The woman at the stove offers the group in the doorway a welcoming smile, and Mason is reminded of his mother with a pang.

“Bobby!” she says with a happy tone, and rounds the counter to embrace the man who had had the gumption to endure four years of her children twice a day. Coach hugs her back, thanking her. She turns to eye them, and Liam tenses next to him. “You guys look hungry,” she says. “Dinner will be ready in a little bit.”

“That’s Mom Speak for go wash your hands,” says a voice behind them. Malia hisses, and they turn to look at the guy behind them in the hall. He’s average. Average height, dark hair and eyes. Good looking, but his jaw’s a little too crooked for him to be considered classically handsome. He gives them a benign smile and excuses himself past them and into the room.

“Who are you?” Malia demands, eyes narrowed.

“I’m Scott,” he tells her. His smile is a little goofy, but genuine. “This is my Mom, Melissa, and that is Lydia, Isaac, Peter and Stiles.”

Melissa accepts a kiss on the cheek from her son, and they exchange a few words between themselves, looking sad. Mason swallows, he knows that look, they just lost someone. Scott makes his way over to the guy at the table (Stiles, his name is Stiles) and sets a hand on his shoulder. The manic movement stops.

“What happened?” Deaton asks softly, worry coloring his tone. He’s gazing at Stiles like he might explode at any second.

The man named Peter imposes himself between the teens that have finally trickled into the room and the table, obscuring their view of Scott and Stiles. His face is neutral, but his eyes are sharp. “We lost the Sheriff and Agent McCall today,” he informs the vet.

“I see,” Deaton says, the worry on his face deepening, but he lets it be.

Scott trades places with Peter, and as soon as the man is within touching range of Stiles, the energy around him abates and he slumps a little. Scott watches the teens set down their bags by the door and shuffle awkwardly.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” Scott offers, pointing. “Like Mom said, dinner will be a few minutes.”

Mason wants to go wash up, but Liam grabs onto his sleeve so he stays.

“Make yourselves at home,” Scott says, then grins at the dog that Lydia is now petting. “Butterscotch is.”

Butterscotch really is, Mason observes as the dog climbs into the armchair in what he probably thinks is a stealthy way, but isn’t. Mason steps forward, “I’m Mason, this is Liam.”

Scott grins, “Welcome.”

“Will the others be joining us?” Melissa interrupts the awkward introductions before Liam can erupt.

“Others?” Deaton asks.

“Derek and Cora got home about an hour ago,” Scott tell his old boss. “They had Parrish with them, he survived the explosion somehow.”

“Explosion?” Deaton asks, then shakes his head when everyone glances Stiles’ way. He knows someone will explain it later.

“They’re coming down,” Scott tells his mother. “We should probably all talk after, so we all know what’s up.”

That seems to be it. Mason exchanges an incredulous look with Liam and they sit on the sofa. Malia reappears and sits at the counter, making sure to leave a stool between herself and Isaac. Taylor heads for the bathroom.

Everyone ignores the tension in the room.

*

“It’s a disease, similar in nature to influenza and smallpox, but it wasn’t grown in a lab. A lot of research certainly went into its creation, but it’s magical in origin.” Deaton looks grim as he begins to explain the results of what he’s discovered about the plague.

“That would explain how quickly it’s mutated,” Lydia muses. She’s seated on the couch now, pressed into Stiles’ side. Butterscotch is lying next to her in the gap between her and Liam, who is absently petting the animal.

Deaton nods, “From what I can tell, it started as a magically created, regularly transmittable illness. The first subject was infected by the creator, probably whoever gained their ire in the first place, and then that person spread it just like the flu. They incubated for a few days, becoming increasingly contagious, all the while leaving behind bacteria on everything and everyone they touched. Typically that isn’t enough to spread a contagion, but we have to consider that the magical part of it probably made it a guarantee.”

“They probably thought they had the flu,” Melissa adds. “That’s what everyone believed before the dead started rising. They had no idea what they were spreading.”

“Probably not. After the short incubation time, the disease mutated quickly into a bloodborne pathogen, which just made it more lethal and shortened the incubation time even more. From the infection trend statistics that we saw before the news stopped broadcasting, it looks like it lost its ability to be transferred within that initial two or three day window. If you consider the amount of people you encounter in a single day, and then multiply that by how many people  _ those  _ people encounter in a day… Well, let’s just say, by the time it mutated to bloodborne, thousands were already infected.”

“So the first person who had it probably died in bed somewhere thinking they had the flu, what, five days after they got sick?” Isaac asks. Next to him, Derek shifts, crossing his arms across his chest.

“If that,” Deaton replies.

“So,” Stiles says, steeling himself to ask the question they’re all thinking. “You have to be bitten to turn, right?” Deaton nods. “How long does it take to turn once you’ve been bitten?”

“It varies,” Deaton says wearily. “It could be anywhere from a few hours to a day. I believe it has to do with where you get bitten. The closer to the heart, the quicker it makes its way through the bloodstream to the brain.”

Peter is perched on the arm of the couch next to Stiles. His expression is thoughtful, but his tone is frank when he asks, “How much of the human they were is left after it’s over?”

“None,” Deaton says flatly.

An undercurrent of tension leaks from the room. The deep seated worry that the zombies they’ve all had to kill to survive had still been  _ people  _ underneath the need to feed on whatever they could get their hands on is gone. The line in the sand becomes stronger, clearly defining the idea of  _ Us  _ and  _ Them _ . The living and the dead.

“I don’t get it,” Taylor says, shoulders squaring when he becomes the focus of attention. His mind is still blown that half these people are  _ werewolves.  _ That several of the others are something else, that being a human in this group is  _ unusual _ . It’s been days since they arrived, and it’s  _ still  _ weird. “How does it work? I mean, sure it brings you back, but why doesn’t it bring back the human part?”

“He’s got a point,” Scott decides after a moment of silence. He looks over at Stiles and Peter. Stiles is their magical guru, he may still be learning the finer points of control, but his knowledge base is broader than Deaton’s. It has been for a while.

Deaton clarifies so that Stiles has more to work off of, because they all know what Scott’s really asking. What happened to the magic to make it do  _ this _ ? If the original illness mutated, why is it raising the dead? “Once the pathogen reaches the brain it kills the body. Then it reactivates the brain stem, the bit that gets you up and moving.”

“The rest stays dark,” Melissa says, knowing where Deaton is going with this. She’s seen plenty of scans of sick and dying patients in the last seven weeks to know. “All the parts of the brain that make you  _ you _ . That part doesn’t come back. It’s mobile brain death.”

“Well,” Cora decides, voice falsely bright, “that’s disturbing.”

“Stiles?” Lydia prompts.

“The law of three,” Stiles decides out loud. “Magic has consequences. The person that did this probably just wanted revenge. He wanted to create an illness that would make the target suffer and die slowly and painfully with no consequence to himself. Only magic doesn’t work that way, and as far as I know, that’s not the way diseases work most of the time either.

If this guy based the design of his magical virus on regular viruses, he would have thought the deadlier the better. Influenza, smallpox, ebola, the black plague. Painful, drawn out death. The problem is, he never thought about the  _ contagious  _ aspect of what he was creating. Viruses like that are transmittable, it’s part of what makes them so deadly.”

“So it being contagious was an accident?” Malia demands incredulously.

Stiles shakes his head, “No. It was an oversight. He either didn’t care or didn’t think about it. Magic has consequences. Intention is everything. Good or bad, magic requires some form of payment. Most of what I do pulls energy from me, so it has less consequences because I’m using my own energy. It still exacts a toll though.

Magic from outside yourself? If you’re doing it to protect or aid, the consequences are less. Like, you heal a dude, and your ficus overgrows and takes over the living room kind of consequences. You pull in the power to kill someone, and that someone isn’t the only one that dies.”

“So the fact that more than one person has died was the consequence?”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles muses. He gets up and paces around the couch a couple of times, thinking hard.

“You think the original subject coming back was the consequence,” Peter decides. The room erupts, but Peter raises a hand in order to continue, cutting off the outrage and panic. “Death magic is one of the most dangerous, not only because of the consequences, but because of what can come back with the person that is ressurected.”

“You came back and nothing happened,” Derek points out flatly, making the newcomers turn to stare at Peter. Finstock edges away from him. “Well, aside from you being not dead.”

Peter nods, not even remotely bothered by the fact that there’s no little amount of fear coming off the teenagers they’ve taken in. “I researched what I did for years before I did it. Granted, it was mostly out of curiosity, and when I performed the rituals I was half out of my mind, but it had consequences. The spell didn’t require the blood of an Alpha, Derek, it required  _ you _ . It required the blood of someone related to me. You or Cora would have worked, it required your death in order to work properly.”

“He’s not dead,” Cora says.

“No, but that’s because Lydia held up long enough to interrupt the end of the spell. If she hadn’t been a banshee, if she hadn’t had the mental fortitude to fight me, I would have come back exactly as I was when I died, crazy and all. Instead, she broke the ritual at the last second, restoring me physically to where I was just before the fire. Derek didn’t die because the ritual was never completed. Lydia isn’t a drooling mess in a long term ward because she did what she did.” Peter sighs, “There were no additional consequences because my diminished state  _ was  _ a consequence.”

Stiles nods, “And nothing came back with him, because anything looking for the opportunity would have required the peak of the ritual to make its move, which never happened.”

Lydia snorts and says with irony, “Happy to be of service.”

The tension in the room eases as the topic of Peter’s resurrection ends and Stiles goes back to the original point. “The consequence of what the caster wanted was the zombification of the intended target, which would have probably become a small outbreak wherever, if it wasn’t so contagious. The fact that the disease created was so contagious spread the consequence of the creation of the virus much farther than intended.”

“So the world is ending because some douche with the juice for big magic didn’t think about his virus being contagious?” Cora demands.

“Basically, yes.”

“Douche,” she decides, and looks at her brother. “I say we track him down and kill him.”

A titter of laughter filters through the room.

“While I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Deaton tells her. “The caster is probably already dead. Most people like that like to watch their victims suffer.”

“So he’s out there somewhere stumbling around with a hankering for brains?”

Deaton hesitates over Cora’s phrasing, but chooses to ignore it. “To put it bluntly.”

Cora sums up what all of them are thinking. “Good.”

*

They wait until the door closes behind Scott, and then they exchange looks.

“Well,” says Coach, “what do you guys think?”

“I think they sound crazier than a bucket of chicken,” Taylor says flatly, “but then I thought zombies were a horror movie myth, so what the hell do I know?”

Malia snorts in that telling way she’s got and flops down onto the couch. The five of them have been given their own loft, which is great. They’ve gotten used to each other in the last few weeks since the world went to hell. “We’ve all seen and done impossible things by now. If werewolves and wizards means we live, then yay.”

Ever since her parents died when she was eleven, Malia has broken things down into two categories: Death and Not Death. If it’s likely to kill her, she stays away from it. Lately that instinct has taken on the distinct tone of ‘if it’s trying to kill me, kill it first’. If it isn’t likely to try and kill her, it breaks down into ‘I like this’ and ‘I don’t like this’.

Simple, yet effective.

“I kind of like them,” Mason says. “Well, except that Peter guy. He’s creepy.”

“What do you know about them, Coach?” Liam asks after snorting in agreement at Mason’s statement.

“I taught Scott, Stiles, Lydia and Isaac for four years. They’re a good sort. Scott’s the responsible, good sort. If he can save you, he will.” Malia huffs, but manages to keep her comment to herself. Coach continues, “Stiles is a little shit, but he’s loyal. Isaac’s quiet. Lydia’s too smart for her own good.”

“What about the werewolf thing? Did you know?”

“I had an idea, but what you willfully ignore in that world is less likely to kill you,” Coach is nothing if not practical about his own survival. “Personally, I think we’ve got more of a chance of survival in the long run if we stick with them.”

There’s a period of silence as they all contemplate what they know now. This place, these people. They seem like good people (or, at least, reasonable people) in general. They also seem to be settling in for the long haul. They have an  _ armory _ for fuck’s sake. They’ve set wards to keep the dead out. They know more about what’s going on that most people.

They’re willing to let them stay.

“So,” Mason says finally, “are we staying?”

And that’s the question isn't it? The five of them are in this together now, they stay or leave as a group. Coach is their leader by merit of not only being the only adult, but also by merit of being, well,  _ Coach. _

“Let’s sleep on it,” Coach decides. “We can talk about it and decide in the morning.”

*

“Think they’ll stay?”

Derek looks over at Scott with raised eyebrows. He knows that having a bigger group would probably be a good thing in times like these, but he also knows that they aren’t all here. Danny and the twins could show up at any moment. Jackson’s driving from the east coast, which will probably take a while. He doesn’t much care where the Argents are, but they’re probably on their way too.

“Do we want them too?” he asks.

“They’re kids,” Scott says, voice a little bit incredulous.

“They’re not kids,” Derek fires back with a snort. “They’re teenagers.”

“He has a point,” Isaac says. “Besides, we’re not that much older than them.”

Scott ignores them, “Coach is a good guy, if a little weird.”

“He’s sarcastic,” Stiles says from the couch. He’s lying stretched out, pressed between the back of the sofa and Peter, “and enthusiastic. Enthusiastically sarcastic.”

“I’ve always liked Coach,” Isaac muses. “And Danny will probably kill us if we turn out his favorite teacher.”

“He was all of our favorite teacher,” Scott states.

“How about this,” Lydia says, getting up. Butterscotch had abandoned her to follow the two boys from the room. Now she’s covered in fur and doesn’t even have a cuddle buddy to show for it. She suddenly misses Prada fiercely. “We let them decide. If they want to stay, we find them things to do and make them part of the pack. If they don’t, we give them some supplies and send them on their way.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Melissa intones with some sarcasm. “How about we discuss the real elephant in the room.”

Looks are exchanged all around the room. Several faces carry uncomfortable expressions. A couple of them glance toward the back of the loft where said elephant is sleeping off being burnt to a crisp and somehow surviving.

“What happened to him?” Isaac.

“He got blown up,” Cora fires at him, then adds: “How did he survive is the real question.”

“I think,” Deaton says slowly, thinking hard, “the only way to find out how he survived is to figure out just  _ what  _ he is.”

And there it is. The real question. Just what, exactly,  _ is  _ Jordan Parrish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering what Butterscotch looks like:


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny and the twins finally arrive in Beacon Hills, and Stiles deals with some of his grief. Scott begins to plan their next move with a little help from Malia's practical side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've given the twins a last name because they don't actually have one in canon as far as I know. It's only ever mentioned the once, but I feel better for having done it.
> 
> Also, I am not even remotely ashamed of my Dragon Ball Z references. At all.
> 
> I guess you could call this chapter the deep breath before the next surge of action?

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Five:_

 

Danny Mahealani hates road trips. He gets car sick if he’s not the one driving, and the traffic has been a particular kind of bitch this time. It took nearly six hours to get out of LA, and then the military had started _bombing_ things. They’d had to stick mostly to back roads, especially when it had come time to get around San Francisco and Oakland.

It had been eerie and frightening to watch the Bay Area burn for two nights.

Because of the back roads, they’d gotten lost several times and had to backtrack. Aiden was never being the navigator ever again if Danny had any say in it. Ethan wasn’t much better, but he at least knew which direction was up on a map.

By the time they cross into Beacon County, his phone is about as useful as a brick. World communication has finally gone out. They’re nearly a week past when they were supposed to be in Beacon Hills. The others are probably starting to worry about them, and there’s nothing they can to do to get there any faster.

“What do you think?” Ethan asks. He’s driving because Danny just couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.

“I think if we have to go much farther, I’m gonna hurl out the window,” Danny says grumpily. He’s pale and a little green around the gills.

“Thanks for that mental image,” Aiden snarks. “I think if we backtrack and go around it’ll take us another day.”

Ethan heaves a sigh and tilts his head like he thinks that if he looks at the overturned truck in the middle of the road from a different angle, the situation will change. “It doesn’t look like we’ve got much choice. This car isn’t exactly winning any awards in the utility category.”

Danny smacks at him, “Don’t make fun of my car, Brooks.”

Ethan bares his teeth in a playful grin at his boyfriend. Danny loves his Prius.

Danny rolls his eyes, “Get out and push.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out and push. You guys might not be alphas anymore, but you can still do that creepy meld-into-one-being thing.” Danny shudders at the thought. It really is uber creepy. “So get out, do your fusion dance, and push or pull that thing out of the way.”

“Fusion dance?” Aiden asks. “We’re werewolves, not _saiyans_ , Danny.”

“Don’t care. Get out and push.”

“Push this,” Ethan grumbles but shuts off the car and gets out. Aiden follows, but only after Danny flails in his direction, threatening to hit him.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Aiden grumps, pulling off his shirt and tossing it back into the car.

“We only have to move it enough for the Prius to get around it,” Ethan tells him, taking off his shirt too.

“It’s an _eighteen wheeler_ Ethan.”

“Let’s just be grateful that the trailer doesn’t need moving too,” Ethan says. “Now shut up and fuse with me Vegeta.”

Inside the car, Danny watches avidly. It’s disgusting and fascinating in equal amounts. After about twenty seconds where two identical twins once stood is a single being. They’re gigantic (linebacker big, pro wrestler big) with strange markings down their back that show where to hit to separate the twins. They’re wolfed out, with blazing blue eyes.

Danny watches them stalk forward and grip the truck under the grill and in the wheel well. They set their shoulder into the truck and _heave._ The truck protests every inch, in a shriek of abused metal, as it slowly moves along the pavement. The metal caves in around the twins’ shoulder. Inch by inch the truck scrapes across the road until there is a gap big enough to squeeze through.

Watching the twins separate is even weirder than watching them fuse.

“I’ll drive,” Danny offers when they get back to the car. They look completely exhausted.

Neither of them complains.

Eventually they get themselves sorted out. Aiden in the passenger seat, Ethan wedged into what little space the backseat has around the luggage (it’s his turn) and Danny driving. He takes it slow as he passes the semi, making Aiden stick his head out the window to make sure he doesn’t scrape against the underside of the truck. Once they get past the wreck, the road is surprisingly clear.

From here, it’s a straight shot into Beacon Hills.

They’re almost home.

*

Stiles brings the bat down again. It’s been wrapped in barbed wire, so it cuts into the walker’s skull with brutal efficiency. As soon as it’s down, he’s moving again. He’s across the street and around the corner in a flash. He’s got somewhere to be.

There are no people in Beacon Hills anymore. The only movement comes from the milling of zombies. There might still be _living_ people in town, but none that they’ve met. Small pockets maybe, but the vast majority of the population has been turned, making what he’s doing both dangerous and stupid.

But he needs to see it.

State Street is a ruin. Burned out shells of cars and burned storefronts. Blackened bodies litter the street, more skeleton than flesh. The devastation that a couple bricks of C-4 and a few grenades can cause is immense. It probably didn’t help that there was no one around to fight the fire.

There’s a fire hydrant on one side of the street still spewing water. It should probably be shut off, but then there’s no one left to do that either, is there?

He finds the spot where his father made his last stand. There’s a crater in the street. A half melted riot shield is sticking up out of the rubble of the pavement. There are no bodies here. The force of the blast would have either incinerated them or tossed them away. Stiles stops moving at the edge of the shallow pit. There’s water gathered at the bottom from the busted fire hydrant.

Stiles breathes in the scent of ash and swallows around the lump in his throat.

He’s not sure just _what_ he was expecting to find when he came out here after so many days.

The crunch of glass and rocks underfoot sounds behind him. Stiles spins, bat at the ready, but drops it back to his side when he sees who is behind him. It’s not a zombie, just Peter. Peter who deliberately made noise so that Stiles wouldn’t completely freak out when Peter stopped next to him.

Peter says nothing, just stands shoulder to shoulder with Stiles and peers down into the crater too.

“At least he went down fighting, right?” Stiles finally breaks the silence. “He didn’t just let it happen.”

“He wouldn’t have gone down any other way,” Peter replies softly. “He was too much like you.”

Stiles chokes out a laugh, “Isn’t that saying supposed to go the other way around?”

“Perhaps,” Peter acknowledges, then he stoops down and picks up something from the ground. He swipes the soot off the object with his thumb, and a clear streak of gold shines dully in the sunlight.

Stiles’ breath catches.

Peter studies the badge in his hand for a long moment. The points of the star are warped, bent at odd angles due to the blast and the heat. Surprisingly, the rest of the star is undamaged. Peter uses the hem of his shirt to wipe off the majority of the ash and dirt. It will take soap and water and maybe a toothbrush to get the black grit out of little nooks and crannies.

Stiles can feel the sob threatening when his father’s badge number is revealed. Peter hands it to him silently, and Stiles clutches it in his fist and holds it to his chest. They both turn back to the crater.

His father is dead, Stiles knows, but maybe he’s not as alone as he thought he was.

He leans into Peter when the older man wraps his arm around him.

*

“Holy shit,” Ethan breathes, leaning between the seats to get a better look. Danny stops the car to stare because downtown Beacon Hills is a burned out husk. It looks like the old town shopping district didn’t survive the riots.

“Oh my god,” Aiden says, stunned. “Is that Stiles?”

The other two occupants of the car turn to follow Aiden’s pointed finger. About a half mile ahead of where the Prius is parked in the middle of the intersection at Main and Cherry, two men are rounding the corner from State Street. The fire damage is even worse in that direction, indicating that the fire probably originated in that direction.

“It is Stiles!” Aiden decides. “And Peter!”

Danny glances around, “You see any dead ones?”

The twins exchange a glance, then look around and shrug or shake their heads at Danny. Danny rolls down his window, leans out, cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Stiles!” at the top of his voice. It has two effects: one, the men on the corner of State Street stop walking and turn; two, the Prius rolls forward a little, making Danny flail because he’s stretched too far to keep his foot on the brake properly.

Aiden grabs the back of Danny’s shirt and pulls him back into the car with a sharp yank. Danny laughs and eases the car down the street toward the two men now waiting for them.

“That was really stupid,” Stiles remarks as soon as the car stops next to him. He accepts the enthusiastic hug Danny jumps out of the car to give him. “There could be dead about.”

Danny shrugs and let's go long enough to hug Peter. It’s a little awkward, because Danny doesn’t actually care all that much for Peter, but he’s so relieved that they're alive he doesn’t care. “We checked,” he tells Stiles.

“What happened?” Ethan asks, gesturing to the fire damage all across one side of the street.

Stiles and Peter exchange a dark look, and Stiles’ grip on something in his hand tightens. It’s Peter that speaks, “You’re looking at the result of the Sheriff’s last stand.”

The words are caustic, but gentle. None of them miss how he sets a hand on Stiles’ shoulder when the other man flinches.

“Oh, god, Stiles,” Danny says, then moves in to hug him again. “I’m so sorry.”

Stiles manages to get a hand up to pat at Danny’s back, still tightly gripping his father’s badge. When they pull apart they both pretend that they can’t see the tears in the other person’s eyes.

“So,” Stiles clears his throat, “give us a ride back to the lofts?”

Danny grins, “Sure. Is that where we’re setting up camp?”

“Yup,” Stiles says. They pile into the car. Aiden and Ethan wedging themselves into the front seat with Danny and Stiles perching himself on Peter’s lap in the back. “So, tell us why you’re late?”

Danny starts to talk, complaining loudly. Stiles is looking for a distraction from his pain, so he gives what he can. None of the three newcomers can help but notice that in comparison with the rest of the damage, State Street is an absolute ruin.

*

“Can I ask you something?”

Scott looks up from the array of knives he’s sharpening. He raises an eyebrow at Malia, but says nothing. She takes it as an invitation to enter the armory. It’s not actually an armory. It’s a loft apartment, but there is steel shelving set up, and they’ve got weapons all over the place. Malia crosses the room and sits down in the armchair across from Scott.

“What’s the plan?” she demands. “Long term. Like, what are we doing?”

Scott stops sharpening but doesn’t set the knife down. He watches the play of light across the blade, and when he speaks, his tone is thoughtful, “We live. We go street by street and take out as many of the dead as we can, then we build walls. We build high walls around as much of the town as we can, and then we get on with it.”

“Why expand?”

“There’s got to be more people out there than just us,” Scott says, certainty in every line of his body. His eyes are fierce when they meet Malia’s. “We need other people to live, that’s what makes us human. Just because the world ended doesn’t mean we stop living, it just means we change _how_ we live.”

“And what if those other humans out there want to take what we have and are willing to kill us for it when we won’t give it over? Or just want to kill us?”

“Not everyone will be like that.”

Malia snorts, “Most of them will be. You’re delusional if you think otherwise. The only kind of person that’s going to survive in the world now is the kind that will kill to survive.”

Scott doesn’t want to admit that she has a point, but he has to, “We can’t give up on everyone just because they _might_ want to kill us.”

Malia shakes her head and gets up. When she reaches the door she turns back, “You think about what you’re willing to do, and what you’re not. The world’s not done changing yet, it’s just waiting for the dust to settle.”

Malia Tate is, at the very core of her being, a survivor.

Scott needs to be that too, or what he’s trying to build will fall to ashes all around him.

Message delivered, Malia leaves.

“She’s got a point, you know.”

Scott doesn’t turn to look at Derek, just let’s the wolf whose loft they’re using to store weapons speak his piece.

“If we’re going to try to rebuild the world,” Derek says slowly, “we’re going to need to have a plan. A plan and rules before we bring anyone else in. You need to decide what those rules are, Alpha. What is required to live in the haven you want to build, because you’re going to have to enforce those rules.”

“I know.” Scott says, but Derek has already disappeared into the bedroom. “I know,” he tells the knife in his hands.

*

Reaching their destination after so long is like finally breathing after holding your breath too long. It’s a sweet, sweet relief. Danny gets out of the car and stretches his arms over his head and bends his whole body into it. Ethan shakes out his cramped legs, rolls his shoulders and then heads for the luggage. Peter and Stiles decide to help.

Aiden heads for the door. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pass go. He doesn’t collect $200. He just goes. Lydia’s in there, and she needs him.

The ride from downtown to the lofts had consisted of being filled in on the status of their pack members. When Stiles had asked what took them, Danny had groaned ‘Traffic!’ and banged his forehead on the steering wheel, so the subject had been left alone. Not so with what they were heading into.

Outside of Allison, Chris and Jackson, they’re the last to arrive. They had lost both the Sheriff and Agent McCall on the same day. Lydia’s mother and Danny’s parents were all gone.

Lydia is the most affected by what has been happening. It isn’t that her mother was dead. It isn’t even the zombies themselves per se. It’s the death. As a banshee, Lydia is attuned to death. Can hear certain frequencies others can’t.

She can sense the death, sense the ones that are going to die; feel the wrongness of it. She can also feel them coming back. Stiles explains that she’s described it like being dipped in oil and then being dunked in cold water and expected to get the oil off without soap.

Aiden can’t even begin to imagine what she’s going through, he just knows she shouldn’t be alone in it. They may have broken up before college because long distance would have sucked, but that doesn’t mean he loves her any less.

It’s been two years, and he still loves her. He probably always will, even if they never get back together.

None of his companions blame him for heading straight for Lydia as soon as the car comes to a stop and the engine shuts off. None of them say anything, they just round the car to collect the luggage and follow after him. He blows past a dog and two teenagers he’s never met in the doorway, but he doesn’t care. There’s only one set of stairs and a couple of doors between him and Lydia.

“You’ll have to forgive Aiden,” Peter remarks dryly, making both boys flinch and spin around to face the man. “He’s concerned about Lydia.”

“Uh,” says Mason. He’ll willingly admit that Peter creeps him out, but not within earshot of the man himself. Liam just glares because angry is his default setting when he’s uncomfortable.

Butterscotch has no such hang ups. He gamely ambles forward to greet the newcomers. It’s only been a couple of days, but he’s gotten used to the smell of werewolf and is no longer intimidated by being around so many predators. His easy transition probably has something to do with Scott’s presence at the clinic.

“Hi.” Danny offers the two teens his free hand. “I’m Danny, this is Ethan.”

Liam shakes his hand first, Mason quickly follows suit. Everyone likes Danny. Stiles has never encountered an exception to that rule before and never expects to.

The group eventually make it inside and into the loft that Lydia is occupying. Stiles offers Danny and Ethan the other bedroom. It was supposed to be his father’s, and he can’t bring himself to use it. He’s been crashing on Peter’s sofa most nights. Everyone knows what he’s doing, but doesn’t say anything. The fact that Peter moves him into his bed and that’s where Stiles wakes up every morning is between them.

Stiles and Peter remove the packed boxes from the bedroom, and Ethan helps them take things up to Peter’s. Danny goes to check in with Scott, who is ecstatic that they’re finally in Beacon Hills.

In the room Lydia has hardly left since her arrival, Aiden curls protectively around the redhead, practically making her vanish beneath his bulk. He clears his mind, and then opens it to the banshee. Her frame relaxes under the protection of the werewolf’s mind, the cacophony in her mind silent for the first time in weeks.

When they had first discovered that they could do this, they’d been shocked and a little scared. Since then, they had come to find comfort in it, even a measure of peace. Lydia’s powers are mostly mental, she could (with practice) make a connection to any of the wolves. She can probably connect to Stiles and Deaton as well, because they are supernatural, but she isn’t about to try.

Trying to block out death is enough. She doesn’t need the possibility of accidentally creating mental links to random creatures added to it.

Quiet settles over the building.

Lydia and Aiden sleep the kind of sleep that occurs when one finally feels safe.

Ethan and Danny begin the process of settling into the loft.

Stiles and Peter join Scott, Derek and Cora in the armory to plan their next move.

Melissa begins the painstaking process of turning one of the ground floor lofts into an infirmary, and Deaton and Parrish join her to begin the the long process of trying to figure out just what the deputy is.

Finstock finds Isaac on the roof where the werewolf is keeping watch. He settles in with the other man and looks out across town. They may have some pretty strong wards, but that’s no reason to let their guards down completely.

Inside the loft occupied by the coach and four teens, Malia is curled up with a dog eared copy of _Jurassic Park_. This is where Liam and Mason find her when they come into the room.

Butterscotch, the family dog, hardly notices the release of tension, he just cares that there are more people around to love him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjustments to the wards are made, and a plan to retrieve supplies is enacted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not think through the cliffhanger thing when I was writing this. My brain went 'here's a good place to stop' and I apparently agreed. In my defense, there are a lot worse places I could have stopped the chapter. The next two chapters will be my evidence for that.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Six: _

 

Over the next couple of weeks they begin to clear out a radius around the compound. With the extra manpower from the arrival of most of the pack, and the start of a plan, they gain ground. It’s slow going, street to street, building to building, room to room, but they manage.

They start with the buildings immediately adjacent to the lofts. There is construction equipment everywhere, and it looks like two of the three were in the process of being converted into loft spaces. One of the buildings is nearly finished, which answers the question of where to put people until they start clearing out some of the residential parts of town. The other isn’t, and the construction can be altered to fit their needs.

The time it takes to sweep clear a block around the warehouse takes longer, mostly because Stiles comes in behind them and painstakingly lays the foundations for wards as they go. Deaton doesn’t have the kind of power required for the kinds of wards Stiles is putting up. It’s up to Stiles and Peter. After the first time Stiles drains himself dry and instinctively taps into the beta, they discover that he can use him like a battery.

It knocks them both flat for two days, but it gets the job done.

Because of the nature of the wards, Stiles can’t actually activate the new ones until the old ones are down. They spend an entire day prepping for it. They’ll only be without wards for about five minutes, but as they’ve learned in the last few years, an awful lot can happen in five minutes. A perimeter is established along where the ward boundaries will lay, and Stiles takes a seat in the very center of the protected area.

Which is no longer the hallway of the warehouse, but is now the corner of Fifth and Eighty-Third.

There’s no flash of light, no fireworks. One second the wards are up, the next they’re down. The humans don’t feel anything more than a shiver, but everyone else feels the telltale tingling zap go up their spines. In the warded room in the loft she now shares with Danny and the twins, Lydia starts screaming as the dead press in around her.

Stiles has prepared for this. He’d eaten a lot, gotten extra sleep. He chants the trigger phrase, and in a surge of power that feels like blisters rising along the inside of his spine, the new wards snap up into place. These are stronger than the last ones because these aren’t layered over each other, they are constructed to work in harmony.

It leaves Stiles gasping on the ground.

Everyone feels the new wards snap up into place.

Lydia stops screaming as the banshee coils up in the back of her mind. She can no longer feel the dead.

*

There is a large map of the city spread out on the coffee table.

“What are those red spots?” Liam asks from his perch on the back of the sofa. There are large sections of the map colored an angry red.

“Red means infested,” Scott explains. “These spots are known locations where the dead have overrun the city. The uncolored sections are unexplored, so we don’t know what’s in them.”

“What about the dots?” Liam wonders. There are yellow, green and blue dots all over the map.

“Well, the green ones are safe places that we know of.” Scott frowns, there’s only one green dot, and it’s on the map in the spot where they’re sitting. “The yellow ones are places we need to clear but not necessarily keep.”

“So they’ve got supplies? Like food and water and stuff?”

“Yes.”

No one mentions that the yellow dots are places like the Sheriff’s Station and the Hospital and the Animal Clinic. There are a good two dozen of them on the map. Places where they  _ know  _ they can get supplies they need. They’ll sweep for anything they can use when they start expanding and clearing the rest of town.

“And the blue?” Mason prompts.

“Places we need to clear and then keep clear,” Scott points to one of the few blue dots. “That’s the power plant. Places like that.”

“This is pretty thorough,” Melissa remarks, leaning over her son’s shoulder to get a good look at it.

“What’s this line?” Cora traces a thick yellow line around their green dot with one finger.

“Ward boundary,” Stiles says.

Scott looks around the room at his pack, “Derek’s helping me with plans for a wall. The problem is deciding where to start and how much of the city we want inside the wall.”

“Here,” Lydia scoots forward and draws the map toward herself. She studies it for a few minutes, then says, “I’ll talk to Derek. We’ll figure it out. Stiles, we’ll need some input from you and Peter as well.”

Stiles nods, so Lydia gets up and leaves the room to find Derek.

“So where first?” Ethan asks.

Scott looks up grimly, his eyes going from Stiles to Parrish and back. “The station. We need the weapons.”

Stiles swallows hard, and Jordan’s shoulders stiffen. The station means they’re the leads on this. Jordan’s been working there every day for the last five years, and Stiles grew up in that station. They know its ins and outs like the backs of their hands. Maybe better.

“Right,” Jordan says, taking the lead. “We should keep the group relatively small. Maybe three teams of two to go in, one team to stay outside and make sure our exit stays clear.”

“I agree,” Stiles says. “The station’s not that big. I say the twins, Scott and Isaac, Jordan and Cora for the teams that go in.”

“What about you and Peter?” Scott asks.

“I’m about as dangerous as a butterfly right now,” Stiles says. “Putting up those wards really took it out of me, and Peter won’t admit it, but he’s drained too; I had to borrow a little bit of power.”

Scott nods, “Derek’s staying here to keep working on the plans. The sooner we know what we need, the sooner we can start, the sooner we’re safe. Danny, would you help out?”

Danny nods, his minor at college was structural engineering. “You got it.”

“That leaves the watch team.”

“We’ll do it,” Taylor says, gesturing to himself and Malia. “We’re pretty good at watching each other’s backs.”

“What about us?” Mason asks. “We’re not kids, we can help.”

Melissa looks like she wants to protest but knows better. Scott wasn’t much older than them when he got turned and started running for his life from hunters and werewolves and other kinds of beasties. She exchanges a look with Deaton and says, “You’ll come with us.”

“Where are you going?” Liam demands suspiciously.

“The clinic,” Deaton interjects. “There are plenty of medical and other supplies there, and we should clear it out before it gets overrun. I locked the doors when we left, but there’s no telling how long the glass will last.”

“What’s the other supplies?” Mason asks curiously. “Are they magic?”

The corners of Deaton’s mouth curve upward a little, showing his amusement, “Some of them are, yes. We kept a store of water for the animals. There’s also a decent generator and gas.”

Liam and Mason exchange a look and Mason shrugs. Liam nods. “Yeah, okay. We’ll watch your backs.”

“My heroes,” Melissa snarks, but she smiles gently at them to soften it.

*

“We need a couple of bigger cars,” Scott observes as they load up the next morning. “At least another van.”

Isaac stops next to him to look at the motley assembly of vehicles in the parking lot. Stiles’ Jeep, Derek’s SUV, Deaton’s van, Danny’s Prius and Scott’s motorcycle. “You’re probably right,” he decides. “Especially for runs like this where we know we’re going to need the space for things.”

Scott nods and shifts the rifle he’s carrying in his arms. He’s never had a use for guns before, so he still feels uncomfortable with it. Stiles and Jordan have been drilling the proper care, maintenance and use of firearms into all of them the last few weeks. They’ve used them in the field before, but they make a lot of noise, which draws other zombies.

Firing your weapon is a last resort, but they all go out with at least a handgun, just in case.

It’s amazing how quickly the last resort comes up these days.

“You got the keys?”

Isaac nods and holds up the keys to the SUV and jingles them, “I think we should put up a board with nails by the door with all the keys. We can’t afford to not know where they are.”

It’s a reasonable suggestion. Jordan walks up next to them, he’s got his sidearm in a holster on his hip and a rifle over one arm. He’s the only person that looks  _ right  _ with a gun in hand. Stiles is a natural, but none of them are used to seeing him with a .45 strapped into his dad’s old shoulder holster, so the sight is jarring.

“We ready?” Jordan asks.

“Looks like.”

The three head over to the cars. Deaton, Melissa, and the teens are taking Deaton’s van to the clinic. They’ll need the extra space for the generator. Until they can get one of the power stations cleared and up, they’re depending on generators and propane. Scott heads for the SUV with Isaac. It’s got the most space aside from the van. They put the back seats down to make more. The rest of the group headed to to station climb into Stiles’ Jeep, Jordan behind the wheel. There isn’t much space in the back of the Jeep, but it can’t be beat for maneuverability and durability.

Roscoe’s been put through its paces over the years, and it’s warded out the wazoo.

In the SUV, Isaac leads the way out of the lot, with the van bringing up the rear. Everyone feels it when they cross the ward boundary. They head east for five miles, then the van takes a left and heads northwest toward the clinic. Scott watches it vanish in his side mirror.

There aren’t that many zombies in view on the drive. They catch glimpses here and there down alleys and side streets, but there isn’t much movement on the road. Isaac is careful to take Centennial up instead of going past City Hall, which they know is overrun. They have to stop halfway down Blossom to get a car out of the middle of the road. Malia and Taylor take care of two zombies that shamble out of an alley behind the group.

The tension in the two vehicles ratchets upward when they round the corner and the station comes into view. There are two police cruisers in the lot, but the rest of the cars are civilian. There’s a group of a dozen zombies milling about in front of the building. Isaac rolls the SUV right up to the double doors, backing it between two of the brick pillars along the front. Jordan is careful to park the Jeep in case they need to get out quick, but not so that it blocks the SUV.

Scott takes in the walkers now heading in their direction and pulls out the machete he’d selected from the Argent armory back when all of this started. Isaac opens his door, pulling out the short sword he’s grown attached to.

The doors of the Jeep open.

They all get out of the cars.

The first moaning groan rattles out of the lead zombie. Cora growls menacingly back, eyes flashing beta gold, as she raises her knife and lunges forward. The zombie’s skull gives, and it goes down. Somehow this makes the rest move a little quicker, like they can sense the meal in front of them now.

The rest of the group moves forward, fanning out in a line, close enough to defend the person next to them, but outside of arm’s reach.

Living and dead meet in the middle.

*

“What do you think?”

“I think,” Deaton says slowly, staring out the windshield at the crowd of zombies milling around the smashed door of his clinic, “that this isn’t exactly how I left it.”

“Whoa,” says Liam, leaning between the front seats to get a better look. “That’s a lot of zombies, Doc.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Can we go in the back?” Melissa asks.

“I didn’t lock the door into the rear,” Deaton says, “but if we can lock it, we should be okay so long as we’re quiet.”

“How many do you think will have made it past the door?”

“Only the lucky few. It’s weighted, so it would be hard for a body just idly bumping into it to open it. But we can’t rely on that, so we should go in ready for anything.”

Deaton carefully swings the van around. They circle the block and come toward the clinic from another direction. The alleyway where the back entrance of the clinic is located is empty. Deaton backs the van as close to the door as he can, then shuts off the engine.

“We can push the dumpster over to block the gap,” Melissa says when she notices that the big green monstrosity is on wheels.

“That’s a good idea.”

So the four of them get out of the van. Mason stands nearby, watching both ends of the alley as the other three brace themselves against the dumpster, the scent of garbage blocking out the vague scent of decomposition, and heave. It rolls forward with a rattle that makes all of them freeze. Liam holds his breath, and they all wait for the sound of shuffling footsteps.

Mason climbs up onto the bumper of the van to peer over the dumpster then hisses, “It’s clear.”

The final three feet between the van and the mouth of the alley facing the front of the clinic is a game of slow inches and low rattling. As soon as the gap between the van and dumpster closes to a couple of inches, they call it good and gather at the back of the van. Deaton opens the doors and the quartet gathers up their bags and weapons.

“Someone should stay here and keep watch,” Melissa says, eyeing the alley behind the dumpster warily.

“We should stick together,” Mason says. “Scott said teams of two.”

“He’s right,” Deaton tells her. “We’ll get this done faster if we split up.”

Melissa nods, then hefts Stiles’ bat up into a ready position. Deaton unlocks the back door of the clinic and steps to the side, ready to open up the door, but out of the line of fire just in case there’s a zombie or five behind it. Liam and Mason line up on either side of Melissa, raising their own weapons.

“Ready?” Deaton asks.

The three exchange a look, and it’s Liam that speaks, voice grim:

“Let’s do this.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff's Station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have moonlightcalls to thank for the fact that this chapter is so long. There were several instances where I was incredibly tempted to end the chapter on a really bad cliffhanger, but I was talked into curbing my evil so the entire sequence for the Sheriff's Dept is here instead.
> 
> There isn't any Stiles and Peter in this chapter, but please allow me to point your attention to the Slow Burn tag, as well as the fact that I world built a hell of a lot and the first half of this fic is basically world-building.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Seven:_

 

The Sheriff’s Station is an ideal location in the event of a zombie apocalypse. It’s built both to keep people in and to keep them out. It’s easily defendable and secure. The rear lot is fenced off with barbed wire topped chain link at the gate and cement and steel everywhere else. The bullpen is open-plan, with offices along one wall for the Sheriff and two interview rooms. The cells are down a short hallway near the rear. There are exactly four cells, all with reinforced steel bars. Evidence and the armory are one level down in what could be considered the basement. There is one freight elevator, one stairwell, and a garage bay for the department mechanic to maintain the vehicles. It has its own fuel station, making it ideal.

It’s even got good sightlines from the roof.

What makes it _not_ ideal is the fact that in order to truly secure the place one would have to go through not only the zombies out front but the ones inside the building as well. The other thing that makes it not ideal is the fact there is no shower. Beacon Hills is on the smaller side for all that it’s officially considered a city. Also there would be no privacy, at all.

Sound carries.

Jordan Parrish knows this, so he is unsurprised when the group steps into the station, and they can hear it. The strange moaning groan of the dead that they’ve all somehow started to get used to. The rest of the group raises their weapons, prepared to be set upon because of how close it sounds. Jordan knows better.

“It’s coming from the cells,” he tells them. He’s got blood all over the leg of his jeans and his shirt is torn. The others relax.

“Right,” Scott says.

They’re all on edge. The fight out front had been hard, but they’re still standing. They had left Taylor and Malia standing guard over the vehicles and the corpses of the freshly dead zombies. The twins are still out there, having split off to go in through the gate into the back lot.

“You know the layout, how do we do this?” Scott asks, deferring to Jordan.

“We can sweep the offices together, but split up at the stairwell. Two of us hit the cells and sweep those, make sure there’s nothing outside the actual cells that could sneak up on us. Then sweep the upstairs for any supplies we can use. The other pair can can do the downstairs, clear it, get the backup generator going so we can use the elevator to get stuff upstairs to the garage.”

“I like that plan,” Cora decides. She grins ferally. “We’ll take the downstairs.”

“You just want to get your paws on the weapons,” Isaac throws at her.

“Yes, yes I do.” Cora is unashamed. She’s a survivor by both nature and nurture. It’s been years, but she remains on the periphery of the pack, always wary that it will be ripped away again. If she’s got anything to do with it, none of them are being ripped away from her again.

“You’re terrifying,” Isaac remarks dryly. Cora winks.

“Right,” Scott says again. He lifts his machete, and the action brings them all into focus.

Jordan knows better than to get between a werewolf and their prey, so he sets the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and lets Cora take point. She promptly wolfs out, giving herself extra weapons in the form her claws. She won’t risk biting, none of the wolves will. Deaton hasn’t been able to estimate what accidentally swallowing zombie blood would do to them. None of them want to volunteer to find out.

Scott and Isaac settle into more of a side-by-side stance, with Scott slightly ahead of the taller wolf since Isaac has a longer reach. Each team selects a side of the office and starts sweeping from the door and the front desk back toward the hallway leading to the stairwell. There are bloody streaks on the floor from the desk back into the darkened bullpen. Scott and Isaac start sweeping between the desks. Cora pauses at the door to the Sheriff’s office and opens the door for Jordan, who clears it with the rifle.

They move onto the next room.

Across the bullpen, Scott and Isaac settle to either side of the break room door. They can both hear faint movement inside. Scott goes low, Isaac high. They both lead with their weapons. One unfortunate former deputy gets his head lopped off, and it rolls under the break room table. Isaac heads directly for the two zombies now shambling toward them at speed. Using werewolf strength and a well placed kick to the chest, he sends one of them careening into a pair of pulled out chairs. He plants the blade of his oversized hunting knife into the skull of the one still standing. Scott sweeps in behind him and uses his machete to take care of the one tangled up in the chairs and then goes to check on the corpse in the corner. Nothing.

They meet Jordan and Cora by the door to the stairs. Cora actually looks a little bored, but Jordan looks mildly worried. The station had been packed when the riots started. Sure, most of the deputies had been out on the street during them, but a few had to have made it back. He doesn’t voice the thought that whatever he and Cora are going to find downstairs is going to be ugly.

He just shares a serious nod with Scott, and the two pairs part ways. Scott and Isaac head down the hall toward the groaning of many zombies. Cora leads the way into the stairwell and toward the basement of the station.

*

Malia watches the door of the station click shut before she turns around to look out across the parking lot. Taylor is studiously watching Ethan and Aiden as they use their werewolf strength to break the heavy duty lock on the gate and pull it open just enough for both of them to slip inside.

Once they’ve vanished she finally speaks, “They’re all a little weird.”

Taylor looks over at her with a grin, “So are you.”

Malia laughs. Taylor had been one of the few kids in school that didn’t look at her strangely for being a foster kid. He also doesn’t mind how blunt she is. “If this goes south we’re ditching them.”

“No, we’re not,” Taylor tells her. He leans against the bumper of the SUV and looks around at all the blind corners around them, gaze watchful.

He’s right. They won’t. But only because the pack is the best way to facilitate her own survival.

She doesn’t tell him he’s right.

*

There aren’t very many vehicles in the secure lot. They’d been told almost all of the squad cars had been out on patrol in the early days. The station had fallen quickly after the riots began, same as the people that worked there. There is one squad car parked near the fence, a prisoner transport van next to it, and a small fuel truck next to the open bay to the garage.

The twins sweep across the lot, looking behind sheds and barrels and around corners. They take out the two mechanics quickly, before either zombie has the chance to notice the living among them. Once they get inside the garage they perform another sweep. It’s eerily empty, with one car up on the lift.

The door into the station is secured with an electronic lock.

There’s a loading dock just off the garage, leading into a small storage room with access to the freight elevator. It takes both of them to break the lock and get the rolling door up, but the room beyond is empty.

“Well,” Aiden says, eyeing the van, “we do need a van.”

Ethan grins. “Let’s find the keys.”

*

There are two guards outside the cells that are quickly dispatched. In the event of the commotion that it causes, the zombie prisoners start to scramble and reach through the bars toward Scott and Isaac when they finish. Isaac has to crawl several feet away from the bars to escape their reaching hands before he can get to his feet.

“I didn’t realize there were so many,” Scott says faintly, staring at the straining walkers in front of them.

“Jordan did say they started locking up anyone that was instigating during the riots,” Isaac said. He, too, is staring in morbid fascination. “It’s not much of a leap for someone that got bitten to be put in here. It was chaos that last week.”

Sad, but true.

“Do you think we should?” Scott asks, gesturing vaguely at the dozen or more dead reaching hungrily for them.

Both of them watch the zombies for a while, taking in the dully pale flesh and bloody limbs. Isaac bits his lip in thought, speaking slowly, “I don’t think so. I don’t think we should risk it, there’s a lot of them.”

“We could get them between the bars,” Scott suggests.

“Can you tell which arms belong to which zombie?” Isaac asks.

Scott doesn’t answer.

They leave the zombies there, reaching desperately after them.

*

Jordan and Cora don’t even make it halfway down the stairs before they’re plunged into darkness. With the power out, the stairwell and lower level are in utter blackness. They stop on the landing halfway down the stairs, and Jordan fumbles for the flashlight attached to his utility belt and clicks it on. It creates a single circle of light around them, beyond which he can’t see anything at all.

“How’re your eyes?” he whispers into the darkness as he attaches the little flashlight to his rifle.

“I can see a little bit,” Cora whispers back. She’s avoiding looking directly into the light, so Jordan points it more toward the ground. Her eyes gleam gold in the dim light. “I can guide us, but we’ll have to rely on my ears and sense of smell more than anything else.”

Jordan nods, mostly to himself, and resets the stock of the rifle into his shoulder. They clamber the rest of the way down the steps to the door leading into the hallway linking evidence, the armory, the locker room, and the utility room at the end that houses the emergency generators. Cora grips the handle of the door, ready to wrench it open with as much strength as she can muster in order to break the lock, just in case.

“Ready?” she asks quietly.

“Straight down the hall,” Jordan whispers. “That’s where the generators are.”

Cora nods to show that she heard him. If there are zombies down here, they need light. Generators first, then they can clear the rest of the floor. She holds up one hand, counting silently down from three with one hand. As soon as the last finger goes down she wrenches open the door.

It gives with a screeching groan of protesting metal that echoes up the stairwell as the lock gives.

“Shit,” Jordan hisses.

And then the first zombie lunges out of the darkness, hands reaching.

*

The thing about zombies is, they have just enough problem solving capability to make them really dangerous. They are creatures of base instinct, without reason or intelligence, but give them enough time and the knowledge that what they want is just out of reach and they _remember things._ They remember how to crawl after their prey, how to run, how to get past unlocked doors.

There is almost nothing worse than thinking you’re safe, then watching that doorknob turn and then _open._

They hear the first shot, and then the second echo up from a distance. It’s too far away to be coming from outside. Scott and Isaac exchange a concerned look, but stop and turn to look back when the zombies in the holding cells start to get louder.

“You think?” Scott asks.

“I think there's nothing we can do,” Isaac replies, eyeballing the cells and the zombies within. “How many rooms left?”

“Just the supply closet,” Scott gestured toward the little room at the back of the corridor. “Stiles told me the Sheriff kept an emergency locker in there. A couple of guns and a satellite phone.”

“Chris and Allison,” Isaac breathes. Even with no one to monitor them, the satellites are still up there, broadcasting signals until time and gravity pull them back down to earth.

“Chris and Allison,” Scott confirms.

They pause outside the door. Scott takes his place next to it, hand on the handle, ready to open it. Isaac hefts his knife, wolfing out and rolling onto the balls of his feet, ready. He nods at Scott. Scott yanks the door open and after a brief pause Janice stumbles out of the closet with a hungry groan.

Isaac brings the knife down.

Scott steps over the body of the receptionist and into the closet, determinedly not looking down at the woman who used to sneak him and Stiles cookies when they were little. He walks to the back of the closet, shifts some cleaning supplies to one side and brings down a lockbox with a keypad on the top.

He shifts it under one arm and nods at the beta waiting by the door, “Got it, let’s go.”

Isaac nods, and they skirt back out toward the bullpen past the reaching zombies. When they reach the doorway, Isaac turns back and locks the door behind himself with a grim expression, just in case.

Just in case.

*

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounded like a gunshot.”

Ethan raises his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side to listen hard. Taylor shrugs, he hadn’t heard anything, but he isn’t a werewolf with advanced hearing.

“I must be hearing things,” Aiden decides. If his brother hadn’t heard it, it must not be important. Ethan usually has the more sensitive ears after all. He nods to Taylor, who starts up the engine of the SUV again and begins to back it into the space next to the prisoner transport van. Malia is out front with the Jeep, and as soon as Taylor is finished moving the SUV, he heads for the gate to rejoin her.

“Think there’s anything here we can use?”

Ethan shrugs, “Not really, but I don’t think anyone would object if we vandalized those vending machines so long we brought stuff back.”

Aiden grins, liking his twin’s thinking. He heads over to a table and dumps several bottles of oil out of their cardboard box as Ethan smashes the glass on the vending machine with the snacks on it. Glass crunches underfoot.

Neither of them hears the faint click as the lock on the door leading from the garage into the station unlocks.

Neither of them sees the handle begin to twist with a faint rattle.

*

Jordan pops off two shots. One, center mass to the chest to force the first zombie back, two, into the zombie behind it. Cora lunges forward, her knife sinking deep into the skull of the downed walker. Jordan swings the rifle around, using the butt of it as a battering ram and slamming it into the head of the second zombie.

The light on the end of his rifle swings around wildly, creating a strobing effect as two more of his former coworkers come rushing out of the darkness toward them.

Cora snarls. Her knife lodges in the skull, and she is forced to abandon it to dodge the grabs of the newcomers. She hops back a step, completely wolfed out. The move puts her at Jordan’s side, and she unsheathes the huge Bowie knife at the deputy’s hip, slashing around with it quickly to attack one of the walkers.

Jordan spins again, grappling with the walker he shot. The rifle clatters to the ground, but not before he manages to get his finger on the trigger one last time. The third shot blows out the back of the zombie’s head, and the rifle takes its prey to the ground with it. The light sways and glints off glass. Jordan lunges forward, slams his elbow into the safety glass, and reaches in.

“Duck!” he yells as he turns around, swinging like he’s about to win the World Series.

Cora hits the ground, Jordan’s knife plunging downward into the third walker’s head. The red fire axe in Jordan’s hands whistles through the air and finds its mark in the last zombie with a hollow thunk.

After a few seconds of stunned, panting silence, Cora clears her throat and crawls over to the rifle, lifting it and aiming the light down the hallway. It skims over the bodies and lands on the closed doorway at the end.

“Generator. Right.”

He takes the rifle when she offers it, but swings the axe over his shoulder and tells her to keep the knife with a grin. They head down the hall cautiously, but the other doors are closed, and there is no more movement.

Once they've cleared the utility room, Jordan hands Cora the rifle, and he reaches down to turn on the emergency generator. It sputters and dies. The deputy gives it a good, solid kick, and it rumbles to life.

Overhead the lights flicker into life.

All across the station, locks start clicking open as the security system resets.

*

The freight elevator is loud, rattling upward with the clank of the metal gate vibrating in its frame. The building itself is not new, the old elevator is just as old as the building. Old, creaky, loud, but reliable. The doors open, spilling daylight into the car. Jordan reaches forward and lifts the gate, it rattles up and down to make way for the passengers.

“You guys okay?” Isaac asks as soon as the doors are open.

Cora smirks as she wheels a cart full of weapons off the elevator. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Scott raises both eyebrows at her smug expression and eyes the blood streaked down the side of Jordan’s face. Jordan just shrugs back, drawing attention to the bloody, red fire axe on his shoulder.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Scott decides dubiously.

“We’re sure. Now, get to gettin’ we got an armory to load up.” Cora says, flapping her hands at the group of boys around her.

Malia snorts from her perch on the roof of the van where she can see through the gate and out into the street. After a consultation with Scott and Isaac when they emerged from the station, it had been decided they would load from the rear. All of the emergency supplies and arms and armor are downstairs.

Taylor climbs into the back of the van to load things as he’s handed them. Aiden and Ethan join Isaac and Cora in the elevator and head back down for another load.

“Hey, Jordan?”

Jordan turns, raising his eyebrows in question as he sets the axe into the side pocket in the door of the SUV where the built in cup holder is, “Yeah?”

“Do you know where the keys to the fuel truck are?” Scott asks. “We checked, and it’s full.”

“The garage office most likely.”

“Great, thanks. We should take it with us, we can use the fuel.”

It takes several trips to get everything loaded. It takes the van and the SUV to do it. The Sheriff had really beefed up the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department after he learned about what went bump in the night. They had everything from handguns to shotguns, sniper rifles to MP5s, and grenades in a variety of flavors. They packed up several sets of body armor and the three riot shields that were left.

Isaac even accidentally found a closet full of emergency supplies. From matches to bottled water, the station had been ready to house and feed its officers for a week.

They take everything they can find, including several sets of walkie talkies and an old CB radio.

“I think,” Isaac decides as he and Taylor force the van doors closed, “we should call this trip a success.”

Taylor grins and opens his mouth to agree, but what comes out is a gurgling scream instead. All the movement stops as everyone turns to look. Then the area erupts.

Isaac lunges forward, trying to tear one of the dead-eyed zombies in blue coveralls off the teenager. He succeeds, but the other one continues to tear chunks out of Taylor’s neck as the screaming trails off into pained moaning. Cora rushes to Isaac’s aid and helps him wrestle the zombie down so that he can bash its brains out against the pavement.

An axe sinks into the other zombie’s skull. Both it and Taylor crumple to the ground like puppets whose strings have been cut. Scott manages to catch Taylor and lower him to the ground, already aware that it’s far too late to help him, even if they could.

Inside the garage, the twins finish dealing violently with the third zombie.

The door to the office stands open.

Malia, who had been screaming Taylor’s name, gets down off the SUV as fast as she can. She drops the crow bar as she rushes to her best friend’s side. “Taylor?” she asks, reaching for him. He’s already gone and makes no answer. She lets out a keening wail of despair, and Isaac fumbles across the pavement to wrap his arms around her, his eyes meeting Scott’s with shock and sadness.

They’ve all lost people like this. It never gets any easier.

“That door was locked,” Aiden says, eyes wide. “We checked.”

Jordan pulls his new axe out of the zombie and turns to look at what had been a locked door. “We turned on the lights,” he says faintly. “The system would have reset itself. All the doors are unlocked.

“The cells,” Scott mutters. “They’re open.”

“We have to go,” Cora says, voice loud. “Now.”

“We can’t just leave him like this!” Malia yells, reaching for her friend again.

“We can’t take him with us,” Scott tells her gently, lowering the body to the ground.

“He can’t come back,” she insists. “He made me promise I wouldn’t let him.”

Scott nods in understanding, and Cora offers him her knife. Malia stops him with a hand on his arm when he moves to do what needs to be done. “No,” she says, face grim, eyes intent. “I’ll do it.”

Scott nods and hands her the weapon, then stands up to give her some semblance of privacy. “Jordan, the keys to the tanker,” he says.

Parrish nods and dashes across the garage into the little office on the far side. Isaac gets into the SUV and pulls it up to the gate, ready to lead the procession out of the lot. The tanker rumbles past, Jordan Parrish at the wheel. The twins haul themselves into the van.

Scott sets a hand on Malia’s shoulder. He can already hear the moaning of the prisoners as they get past the doors between them and the outside world. “We need to go,” he tells her softly.

Malia nods, and with one vicious stab, prevents Taylor from ever rising as a zombie. She lets the Alpha draw her to her feet and help her into Stiles’ Jeep. She watches the station flash past as Scott guns it out of the lot after the tanker.

Behind them the van stops just long enough for Aiden to hop out and haul the gate closed and lock it. Either just in case they ever need to come back, or to make it look like they were never there. Then they speed up to bring up the rear.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Animal Clinic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Eight:_

 

After the door is pulled open, they all stand there for a minute, waiting. When nothing comes stumbling out of the building, the tension eases a little. Deaton steps around the door and reaches up to lock it into the open position.

“Right,” Melissa says, “Liam, you come with me, Mason you go with Alan. Stay together.”

Liam looks mulish for a moment but realizes that Melissa is a mother, she’s not going to let two teenagers wander into what could be a zombie infested building by themselves. She’s just not. So he shrugs it off. Mason nods and moves forward to follow Deaton into the building.

Beacon Hills Animal Clinic isn’t very big. There is the front reception area, with the long counter and its row of chairs. There are two doors, one leads into a hallway where Deaton keeps a small office, and the two small exam rooms. In the hallway, is the door to the bathroom, and the swinging door, which leads into the procedure room. This is the room where Deaton performs any surgeries or procedures that he finds it best to not let the owner of the pet witness. From the procedure room is the door that leads into the kennel. At the back of the kennel is a large supply room and a door that leads into the hallway next to the bathroom.

It is in this hallway that the back door is located.

When the quartet enters the hallway, the building is dark. The power grid has been down for weeks, so this is unsurprising. Deaton gestures Mason into the supply room and waves Melissa and Liam toward the rooms down the hallway. Melissa nods and leads Liam off. Deaton follows Mason into the supply room.

Long shelves line the walls. One side filled with different kinds of food and pet items. The other side has a set of large, locked cabinets filled with medical supplies. Next to the cabinet are several cases of bottled water, a ten gallon gas can and a small portable generator.

Mason grabs the handle of the door leading into the kennel and Deaton nods, ready. He pulls it open. After a moment, Deation slowly eases into the room. Down at the other end, near the door leading into the procedure room, is a single walker. Female, and standing with a slight sway.

Mason swallows hard when he sees it.

*

Melissa doesn’t expect to see anything in the bathroom, but they check anyway. The exam rooms are similarly empty, with fewer nooks and crannies for zombies to hide in than the bathroom. Deaton’s office is similarly empty, and that means the hallway is clear.

Liam stops next to the door leading into the reception area. This close to the door, and he can hear the hiss and the bumping of the dead moving about on the other side.

A glance down shows that the door is unlocked.

He reaches out and slides the bolt home.

“Let’s go find the others,” Melissa whispers softly.

*

They are able to take out the zombie easily. Its back is to them, so it doesn’t take much for Deaton to sneak up behind it and plant his machete into the back of its skull without a sound. He catches it and eases it to the ground so that the noise doesn’t catch anything on the other side of the door.

Mason steps over next to them and helps him ease it to the ground, then the pair steps around the body to listen at the door. A glance through the little glass window reveals three zombies shuffling around in the room. Unfortunately, from this angle, Deaton can’t see the swinging door into the reception area.

That door could be wide open for all he knows.

But they need to clear the room. The cabinets in the procedure room are where he stores all the medicines. They’re going to need them.

He ducks back away from the window when one of the walkers turns toward it and turns his head to look at Mason. Melissa and Liam enter the room then, and they make their way over to them.

Deaton holds up three fingers. When he receives a trio of nods, he reaches for the door handle.

They rush the room. It’s always best to try and get the early advantage when it comes to fighting zombies. If you can’t run, and you have to fight, quick and deadly is best. Fighting another human is difficult. Fighting a zombie that is nothing but limbs and weight and determination is even harder.

Never mind the smell.

Melissa gets the jump on the one nearest the door, taking it down with her bat and a grim expression on her face.

Liam and Mason double team the one in the corner by the sink.

Deaton goes for the one by the cabinet.

All three zombies go down fairly quickly, but enough noise is made to alert the zombies in the next room to the possibility of a meal. The weighted door moves ominously.

Deaton thinks quickly, drops his weapon, and upends the steel exam table. It weighs a good fifty pounds and is just tall enough on its side to wedge it between the cabinet that is bolted to the wall and the hinge on the door. Liam and Mason rush to help him move it into place as Melissa sets her weight into the door to keep it from opening any further.

“Think it’ll hold?” Mason asks in a rushed hiss.

“Best not test it,” Deaton decides. “Liam, there are some empty boxes in the supply room, go get a couple.”

Liam takes off and Deaton pulls out his keys and unlocks the cabinets. “We’ll take everything,” Deaton says, already pulling vials off the shelves. “We can sort it all out back at the compound.”

Melissa moves over to help him as Liam returns with the boxes. The teen then moves to help Mason brace the table as the clink of colliding bottles fills the air.

“Does the kennel door have a bolt on it?” Melissa asks as she opens drawers and sweeps the contents into her box.

“It certainly does,” Deaton replies.

*

“I think that’s everything,” Melissa decides as she sets the last case of water into the back of the van. Liam reaches forward and hooks his fingers under the plastic to slide it toward him at the front of the van.

“Do we need to push the dumpster back?” He asks after he slides it into place. He cranes his head around to look out the open sliding door at the green monstrosity.

“I hope not,” Melissa says.

Mason backs out of the door carrying one side of a huge wooden chest. Deaton is carrying the other side, and Melissa quickly gets out of the way so that they can heave it into the back of the van. It hits with a thud and Deaton sighs heavily.

“We ready?” Melissa asks.

“That’s everything,” Deaton confirms. “Let’s go.”

*

The pen in Lydia’s hand clatters to the table top as she stares sightlessly toward the far corner of the room. Her already pale complexion has gone paperwhite.

“Lydia?” Stiles asks softly, reaching out, but not quite touching her.

She turns her gaze on him, but he gets the distinct impression that she's not actually looking at him. “The clinic,” she says, voice a dreamy. “It’s all going wrong.”

Peter stands up, setting his book down, alert and ready. Derek stops leaning on the table, eyes focused, brow pulled down low on his forehead. Stiles swallows hard. “Are we too late?”

Lydia’s gaze sharpens on whatever she’s looking at. “Not if you hurry.”

The three look at each other, then over at Danny, who nods. He watches the three rush from the room, hears them clatter down the stairs, and then the loft is silent. He steps over next to Lydia and does the one thing Stiles couldn’t: he grips her hands in his own.

“Lyd?” he asks softly.

She looks at him, this time actually seeing the person in front of her. “It’s all going in different directions,” she says softly, fear stretching her tone thin. “It’s all pulling in different directions and we can’t save them. Not any of them.”

Danny’s lips thin as he presses them together, then he asks: “What do we do, Lyd?”

“The only thing we can,” she whispers. “We hold on and pray we make it.”

Silence falls. Slowly Danny becomes aware of Lydia’s grip tightening on his hands until the tips of her still well-manicured nails dig dents into his skin. He braces himself as her eyes get far away again. Her mouth opens, and that blood-curdling, unearthly scream leaves her.

Overhead the light bulbs shudder at the force of that scream; and then one by one, they shatter.

*

“Wait! Stop!”

Melissa stomps on the brakes at the shout, throwing everyone forward.

“Did you see that?!” Liam demands. He's sitting on a crate behind the passenger seat and staring out the window behind them.

“See what?” Mason demands, turning around in his seat to try and see whatever Liam has apparently seen.

Liam points, “Down that road. I think there were _people._ ”

Melissa looks around at Deaton, incredulity on her face. He nods at her and she throws the van into reverse and backs the van down the street to the last intersection. They’re in a section of town that is half houses and half shopping district. Grocery stores and restaurants line one side of the road; the other side is populated by small businesses and the start of older residential neighborhoods.

The van stops, and Liam reaches forward to open the sliding door to get a better view.

Approximately a block down the street are two cars, one is still running, the other has run into a parked sedan. There are about half a dozen people in the road. Three of them are kids, the oldest is maybe ten. The others are adults, an older man, a younger man and a young woman.

At the mouth of the next street, zombies are walking into view, drawn to the sound of the crash.

“What do you think?” Deaton asks.

“I think we can’t leave them to get eaten,” Melissa says grimly and reverses the van, so that it’s facing the small family. Liam locks the door open and grabs for the rifle stuck in the space between the side of the car and the passenger seat. Melissa pops the van into drive and hits the accelerator.

As soon as the van starts careening down the street, they have the attention of the people in the road. The older man with the salt and pepper hair takes in the white van roaring toward them, and looks around in alarm. Mason can see the second he notices the horde of zombies heading for his family. He shouts something, and then they’re scrambling to get into the working car.

Melissa weaves the van past the family to block them from the horde of zombies. Liam gets a single shot off, downing one walker before she’s whipping the van around to point the way they came. Deaton is out of the van in a trice, racing toward the family at speed.

“It won’t start!” the younger man yells. It explains why they had tried to get another car. A vehicle that isn’t reliable in the world now is more of a liability than it ever was.

Deaton reaches them just as he starts to get out, he cocks the rifle in his hands and fires into the crowd of walkers he can see. Liam has jumped from the vehicle along with Mason, and they’ve both taken up firing stances at either end of the van.

“What do you need?” Deaton asks.

“Time,” the older man states. “It’s the battery, we’ve got to jump it.”

“You have jumper cables?” Deaton asks. The man nods. “Right, let’s get this done.”

He slings his rifle over his shoulder and heads for the back of the car with the older man to push the car toward the front of the van.

*

Derek clutches at the sides of the seat in front of him as they careen around another corner, claws coming out to sink into the upholstery. In front of him, Peter looks calm; but his grip on the oh-shit handle is white knuckled instead of casual like he’s going for. Who knew Stiles has been showing _restraint_ all these years when driving? The tires of Melissa’s little, gold sedan squeal as they attempt to keep their hold on the tarmac as they weave between abandoned cars.

Stiles isn’t trying to be subtle as he sledgehammers past a bicycle, clipping it with the bumper and sending it flying.

The sedan comes to a halt in a screech of tires, and both werewolves jolt forward with an _‘oomph’_. Derek eats a face-full of old car seat. Peter gets an arm across the chest as Stiles reaches out to stop him from becoming intimately acquainted with the dash.

Stiles just mom-armed _Peter._

Derek shakes his head and cranes his head around the seat to look just as Stiles starts to accelerate again, gunning the engine toward a car and a large white van.

“Stiles,” Peter says in alarm, bracing one hand on the dash and leaning back into the seat. “Stiles!”

“Get ready,” Stiles says.

Derek braces himself, and then the car is slamming into the first of the zombie horde trying to get their hands on the small group of humans by the van. Bodies hit the sedan with hollow thunks as the car speeds forward, past the van for several yards, before Stiles hits the brakes.

“Time to go,” Peter says as soon as the sedan comes to a halt.

Derek digs his claws out of the upholstery and grabs for the sword that slid down into the footwell with the abrupt stop earlier. He unsheathes it as he uses the car door as a battering ram. Stiles and Peter get out of the car as well. The crush of dead bodies invades his senses, and the din is nearly loud enough for him to miss the yelled “Got it!” and the sound of an engine revving.

Peter slings himself across the hood of the car to reach Stiles’ side. Derek backs around the bumper, swinging at everything that moves toward him. A fireball whizzes past his head; he ducks instinctively, spinning and dashing around the back of the car toward the van as Stiles recharges, and another fireball slams into the dead lurching after them.

When did Stiles learn to fling fire?

One of the two teenagers Finstock brought with him leans out the side of the van and fires a couple of shotgun blasts past Derek as he dives into the open sliding door. Whoever is driving yells out the window at Peter and Stiles, who are working their way around the far side of the van to cut off the zombies headed for the small family that Derek doesn’t recognize.

“Daddy!” is screeched frantically above the din.

Derek grabs the crowbar, abandoned on the floor of the van, and dives back out into the fray just in time to see Stiles and Peter hit the back of the van. Stiles is pale, blue around the lips from flinging fireballs so soon after putting up the new wards. He’s flagging but still fighting with his bat. Peter is wolfed out, using claws just as much as the machete in his hand.

There’s a little girl, no older than ten, clutching a young boy to her chest. The boy is too big for the girl, but she’s trying valiantly anyway. Derek starts to fight his way toward her as a frantic male voice rises above the din, calling, “Abigail!”

The girl’s father is stuck over by the restarted car, defending a woman with a toddler in her arms.

Derek growls and wolfs out.

Electricity sizzles past his head, charging the zombies reaching for the two children with enough voltage to cook them from the inside out. Deaton appears at Derek’s shoulder, and the wolf is reminded just why his mother had respected the veterinarian. He looks absolutely ferocious, and he’s got the fight to back it up once he drops that nearly unbreakable calm of his.

Together, wolf and druid fight their way over to the girl. Deaton crouches down and picks up the little boy. Derek grabs onto the girl and slings her up onto his back with a “Hold on!” shouted loud enough for her to hear. He feels her grip tighten, and turns to cover Deaton’s back as they make their way back toward the van.

“They’ve got them!” the girl’s father yells. “Lisa, get in the car!”

Lisa spots her children in the arms of the men that came to her family’s rescue and does what she’s told. The older man waiting in the driver’s seat throws the car into gear just as the father gets into it, reversing away from the horde of zombies.

The boy in Deaton’s arms starts crying, loud and terrified. Deaton swears loudly and turns away from the zombie reaching for the child.

It leaves him wide open, and Derek is too far away to do anything.

The zombie grabs at Deaton, gets a clutching grip on his free arm, and sinks its teeth into flesh.

A roaring sound starts in Derek’s ears. He thinks it’s just in his head, until he spots the whirlwind of fire blasting out of Stiles and through the zombies between him and his mentor. He can feel the heat of the flames, and adjusts his course to get to the van as zombies all around them ignite.

Peter’s roar of rage echoes over the din of the dead and the rush of the flames which die out almost as quickly as they appeared.

But the damage is done.

Stiles takes up the boy, and Peter slings Deaton up onto his shoulder.

Melissa hits the gas on the van and they’re speeding away even before the teenagers have finished helping haul Deaton into the vehicle. Derek lets the momentum close the passenger door for him as the little girl in his arms clings to him and starts crying.

Frantic movement in the back of the van, yells about pressure, the crying of the child, the cussing of loud voices, the clatter of things being flung about in the search for bandages. All of it fades to the background as Derek’s eyes meet Melissa’s. Derek knows the knowledge and despair is reflected in his eyes too.

Even if they stop the bleeding, Deaton’s already dead.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, it's time to choose to start living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I only said the zombie grabbed Deaton's arm... I never specified where he got bitten.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Nine:_

 

“I - I’m sorry about your friend.”

The words sound loud as they break the silence. Scott pauses in the doorway, turning his head to meet Lisa Beardsley’s sad gaze. His eyes shine a deep ruby, making her shiver at the thought that they look like blood. His gaze isn’t hard, isn’t violent… if anything, it’s sad; but there’s something about that color.

Scott nods and leaves the room.

The vigil is over. It’s been two days, and now it’s time to do what needs to be done.

Finstock stands, arm around Malia’s shoulder. He guides her out of the room, Liam and Mason following sadly. There’s been a lot of loss today. Yesterday? It’s very late; the moon high in the sky.

Isaac settles into place next to the door to wait for the Alpha to return. He will help bury Deaton’s body when it’s done. Until then, he’ll guard his Alpha’s back.

Derek rises abruptly, making Mark Beardsley flinch at the sudden movement. The man has his sleeping two year old daughter clutched in his arms like the child might vanish if he lets go. She very nearly had, so Derek can’t blame him the reaction. Deaton gave his life for that child, so he knows that the Beardsley’s are feeling the loss keenly. It doesn’t stop him from quitting the room abruptly and without a word.

He goes to find Cora. His comforting sister Cora who won’t judge him for breaking down. She’ll make fun of him but hold him anyway. Just like she knows he won’t say a word when he finds her with Jordan Parrish, the fire retardant deputy.

Aiden is with Lydia who had had to be sedated.

Peter rises abruptly, making Olsen Beardsley flinch away from him. The older man had put himself between this man and his family, but something about the werewolf is unsettling, unlike the others. Werewolves… doesn’t that beat all? That Scott young man seems to balance it out with kindness, but Olsen can tell that Scott is the apparent leader.

He isn’t sure what to make of the oldest wolf.

Now that the vigil is over, Peter can’t be bothered with social niceties. Stiles is magically exhausted and passed out upstairs. Scott can handle the situation. Even if he couldn’t, Scott wouldn’t let anyone else deal with this particular situation. Alan Deaton was his mentor and friend. The Druid will be missed.

He exits the room just as Melissa and Danny join forces to try to ease the Beardsley’s minds, offering food and a place to rest.

Sorting it all out can wait until morning.

He lopes up the stairs two at a time. Ignores Derek pacing about in the armory loft and Cora’s soft voice talking her brother down. He slips into his own loft, which has basically become magic central, and closes the door behind him. These days, a closed door means do not disturb. The others will respect that - for a while at least.

Stiles is curled up in the middle of Peter’s bed, his back to the door. He’s built up a wall of pillows around himself, and the only part of him that is visible outside the blanket is a bit of brown hair. Peter quickly changes his clothes for comfort and then climbs onto the bed. He dislodges the two pillows propped against Stiles’ back, eases up the blanket and slides in behind the exhausted Spark.

Stiles grumbles at him until Peter lays the pillows over the top of them and presses close, arms wrapping around him.

“Sleep, Mikolaj,” he tells the back of Stiles’ neck in a whisper. Stiles shivers at the sound of his first name tripping off of Peter’s tongue. Aside from his parents, Peter is the only one who has ever been able to pronounce it in _just_ the right way.

“Why do we keep losing people?” Stiles whispers into the pillow clutched to his chest. It’s been a month since the Sheriff died and nearly four since the world started ending. They’ve lost so many.

Peter sighs and reaches up to run a hand through the other man’s hair. “Because that is the nature of the world we live in; the end of the world has just made that fact more prominent.”

The lives they’ve lived have never been _safe_ , per se, but with the dead all around them, mindless and hungry, the losses seem more profound. Maybe because now, death is never normal, never peaceful.

“What do we do?” Stiles asks.

“What we always have,” Peter replies. “We survive.”

*

There’s a big empty lot across the street, and it’s inside the wards now. Melissa had theorized that it would be the perfect place for a large garden. The fact that eventually they’ll run out of food they can scavenge is a given, so Scott has given her the job of figuring out what they would need in order to make it a real, proper garden.

After all, there’s only so much a nurse can do when she doesn’t have any patients.

Melissa doesn’t mind. It lets her plan for a future, any future. Hope for the possibilities is hard to come by.

There’s a small corner of the lot where nothing will ever grow, except maybe a few hardy breeds of grass. There’s a gnarled poplar tree growing there that was probably part of an initiative to beautify this part of Beacon Hills years ago. It’s probably only alive out of sheer stubbornness and the need to be contrary.

This is where they bury Deaton.

They don’t really hold a service. Deaton is the first person they’ve had the opportunity _to_ bury. Since the world began to end, in the three months since, there’s been more time spent running away from the bodies of friends and family than there has been time to mourn. In most cases, the dead had been left behind so that the living could continue to be _alive_.

In the Sheriff’s case, there was no body to bury.

In Agent McCall’s case, he had sacrificed himself for his ex-wife and son and is still at the hospital.

With Taylor, there had been no time.

These are only a few cases among many.

So they don’t hold a traditional service, but they do bury him. Everyone shows up as Scott and Isaac lower the sheet wrapped body into the grave they had dug. Stiles uses a little bit of magic to engrave the druid’s name in a large rock and etch a couple of protective runes around it. Mark and Olsen Beardsley take up the shovels to fill in the grave as a small show of gratitude at the sacrifice that Deaton made to save Mark’s son.

There’s a drawn out moment of respectful silence, and then they leave in ones and twos, crossing the lot and the street until only Scott and the two Beardsley men remain.

“I’m sorry,” Olsen says gently. He is genuinely sorry for the loss of a good man, but eternally grateful for his sacrifice.

Scott offers the old man a smile. “He did what any one of us would have.”

“I think we’re starting to realize that,” Olsen replies.

Mark is leaning on his shovel, contemplating the overturned earth and the small, improvised headstone. “What do we do now?”

Scott claps him on the shoulder and gestures at the buildings behind them. “We rebuild. We figure each problem out as it comes. We live.”

“Get to gettin’ on,” Olsen says, making Mark snort.

Scott doesn’t say anything about what must be a thing between father and son. The three of them turn back toward the lofts. As they go, Scott begins to explain his plan to the first of what he hopes will be many newcomers to Beacon Hills.

*

Stiles has never thought much of Scott’s need to take responsibility for everyone and everything. In most cases, it’s always been more than it’s worth. His sense of fair play and responsibility has brought them a lot of trouble in the past. Especially in the years since Scott was bitten. Second chances and good intentions are all well and good; but in their world, failure usually results in dead bodies.

Stiles has lived most of his life dividing things into two categories and proceeding from there. Will it hurt him or anyone he loves? If so, he gets rid of the problem (in recent years this means killing it), if not, he proceeds with caution (or reckless abandon, depending on the situation).

Since the world ended, everything he’s done has been toward the goal of survival.

The little owl-shaped kitchen timer starts to hoot at him, so Stiles stops shaking the jar in his hand and takes off the lid with a sucking pop. He taps the timer on its head to get it to stop hooting at him and carefully pours the mixture into a series of much smaller glass jars. Travel-sized for Stiles’ convenience, if this works.

If it works.

He seals the five jars, then pours the last of the mixture into a small bowl. A quick rinse and the old jar is on the sideboard drying and Stiles is making his way into the living area, a bowl of black liquid in his hands. He sits down on the rug in a space he’s cleared for this purpose. He sets the bowl down next to a paintbrush and an open notebook and rolls up his sleeves.

It’s time to stop surviving and get on with living.

It’s been over a week since they buried Deaton. Stiles has recovered magically, and the others have started to implement Derek’s plans for the walls. It means that there aren’t many people around to interrupt or distract him.

Lydia is downstairs with Danny trying to get the messages buzzing in her head out on paper. Melissa, Lisa, and the kids are over in the next building putting the finishing touches on the living spaces that are finished and waiting for occupants now. Stiles knows that one day Scott hopes to expand into one of the suburbs, but for now, this will serve their needs.

Stiles is too accident prone to reliably help build anything, much less a wall of crushed cars and corrugated steel. He’s got enough mechanical experience to help keep the cars in running shape, but no one is beating around the bush here, Stiles is valuable for his ability to keep this place safe.

The wards are linked to Stiles. The wards keep out anything with the intention to do harm, especially zombies.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and picks up the paintbrush. He needs to figure out a way to make his offensive spells more accessible. The little chips of stone Deaton had taught him to store spells in just aren’t enough. For one, he can’t use just any old rock, it’s got to be a gem or mineral. For two, he can only carry so many because they don’t react well when jumbled together.

He’s hoping this will allow him to channel multiple shots in one symbol, and allow him to carry as many spells as he wants.

He dips the brush into the ink. It’s… not really ink. It’s a mixture of herbs and mountain ash all designed to channel Stiles’ magic through it. With a quick reference to the notebook, Stiles paints a symbol for fire onto the back of his left hand, then he puts the brush down.

He stares at the symbol for a moment, flexes his hand and watches it move. The he cups his hand at chest height and wills his Spark up, channeling it down his arm and through the rune. Blinding light begins to pool in his hand, like he’s holding onto a miniature sun. He squints, and reaches up with his other hand.

It’s working.

Just like any other spell, once conjured, he can manipulate it with both hands, tell it to do what he wants it too. The ink on his hand flakes and peels off under the warmth from the light, leaving behind a brown mark like henna. Stiles starts a mental timer, wondering how long the mark will last.

So long as the mark is there, Stiles will be able to use the spell it represents.

“Stiles, what?”

Stiles yelps, jolting in place. He loses his grip on the light in his hands, and it twists and then explodes across the room, leaving glittering spots of light like fireflies hovering all across the floor. He turns to see Peter standing in the doorway, both eyebrows raised. “Experimenting?” Stiles asks sheepishly.

Peter strides into the room, cutting a path through the bits of light, and crouches down beside Stiles. He takes his hand and rubs a thumb across the mark on his hand. “Is it dangerous?” he asks as the mark begins to fade.

“Nope,” Stiles says. “It’s not even flammable. I just wanted to be able to carry more spells around than I can now.”

“It’s working,” Peter says more than asks. The evidence is flickering around the room all around them. Stiles grins and nods, and the mark finishes fading. As a result, the light particles begin to flicker out one by one, and then all at once.

“Looks like it’ll last about three minutes once applied,” Stiles says, frowning down at the bowl.

“That’s not a lot of time,” Peter observes. “You won’t be able to put them on before you leave the compound. You’ll have to put them on as needed.”

Stiles nods, “An unfortunate side effect, but short of using it to tattoo the symbols on my body, it’ll have to do.”

Peter smirks, “I’m going to remind you what you said when we meet a tattoo artist.”

Stiles thumps him on the shoulder, biting back a smile, and Peter tips onto his butt next to him. He picks up the bowl to examine the mixture closely. He sniffs. “It smells like moss.”

“Could be worse,” Stiles tells him because it could be _a lot_ worse.

“This is pretty cool, but not that reliable for those instances when you don’t have time to paint runes all over yourself.”

“I know, I’ll keep carrying around the regular spells too.” Stiles digs several agate stones out of his pocket, each one etched with runes. The stones themselves will disintegrate as soon as he releases the spell within. “And my bat. And you.”

“And me?”

Stiles nods. “And you.”

*

“Is one deep enough?” Scott wonders.

Derek gives him the stink eye. “Of the two of us, which one was the one with the architectural engineering degree?”

“You.”

“Me. So, one car deep is four to five feet. We’re using the tires to reinforce in the gaps, and laying corrugated sheet steel  around the outside to create a smooth surface. Once this wall us up, nothing short of a rocket launcher will be able to blast a hole through it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Scott gets Derek’s point.

It might seem like overkill, building their walls out of crushed cars, but Scott isn’t stupid enough to think that zombies are the only thing out there that will want in. The weak points will be the two gates they’ll be putting in. One on the freeway leading north, out of town, and one leading south off of Market Street toward downtown. The gates will be manned twenty-four-seven.

They’re starting with a twenty mile square with the loft compound as the center. It encompasses the small power station that serviced the warehouse district and a bunch of buildings that can be converted into whatever they need with a little creative thinking. They can expand eventually if they come across enough people.

“It’s going to take a long time,” Scott observes, looking at the three or four cars they’ve got stacked at the starting point.

Derek shrugs. “The wall was always the long term plan, Scott. It’ll go faster as soon as you start bringing me more people.”

Scott nods. “They’re out there.”

Derek claps him on the shoulder and heads over to help the twins force a pulverized Ford Focus into place on top of a Toyota Corolla. Malia is on watch on top of the SUV nearby. No one sees any point in making Stiles ward twenty miles of space they won’t be occupying any time soon. He has already laid an additional ward over the lot where the garden is going in.

There’s also no point in trying to clear out all the zombies wandering through the area until the walls are closer to being finished, and they can guarantee that more won’t take their place. Besides, they have enough people to either build the wall, or clear zombies. They certainly don’t have enough space for both.

“Any word from Allison?”

Scott glances over at Isaac but turns back to watch the work. “Not since that first call.”

They had managed to get a short, staticky call through to Chris’ satphone the day after they’d retrieved it from the station, but none since. The call had been long enough for Scott to know they were close, on their way, and they were bringing people with them. At this point, all any of them can do is hope they’re closer than farther, and keep a watchful eye out for them.

“How’re things going?” Isaac asks.

“It’s going to be an epic wall, that’s for sure,” Scott says with irony. “It’ll take a while.”

“Aww,” Isaac says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Don’t worry, we’re performing a public service. Cleaning up the streets.”

Scott laughs and follows Isaac back toward the work.

What better way to clear the streets and get rid of thousands of abandoned cars than to use all that debris to build a big-ass wall to keep the dead out?

*

The axe comes down, hitting with a thunk and sticking. Jordan sets his foot on the torso of the zombie and yanks the axe out of its skull. He looks at the end of the aisle with a frown. Cora appears, riding a shopping cart into view. When she sees the two downed zombies she raises both eyebrows at him in inquiry.

Jordan shrugs. “They got in the way.”

He steps over one of the bodies to get to the shelves and starts tossing goods into his own cart. Cora laughs at him when he sets the axe in the kiddie seat at the front, easily accessible. “You and that axe,” she tells him as she loads more stuff into her cart.

He grins at her with a wink, “I like things that save my life.”

She rolls her eyes. “It just makes you look more like a fireman.”

“Well, I am fireproof, so…”

She throws a bag of wasabi peas at him, and he dodges, laughing.

*

She stops to take a picture of the sign when they cross into California. It’s been nearly four months, and every mile west has been hard fought. The caravan is six cars long now. The group is twenty strong, and all of them are looking to Allison and her father for guidance.

“Anything?” she asks after she powers down the cell phone that is now basically a glorified camera.

Chris shakes his head. “Not yet. But we knew coverage would be spotty at best.”

“At least we know they’re alive,” Allison decides.

Chris nods in agreement. They know the pack is at least partially intact. Father and daughter stand side by side, eyes watchful as they scan over the group they’ve gathered in their cross country trip. They are both dirty and armed to the teeth. Chris has a .45 strapped to one thigh and a short sword strapped to the other. A high powered rifle is slung over his shoulder, ready at a moment's notice. Allison is armed similarly, though she’s got her longbow and a quiver of arrows on her back.

“How much longer do you think?”

“A couple of days.” Chris knows that it will be at least two, more likely four or five. With constant roadblocks, the fact that it is no longer safe to travel at night (the undead are more active at night, and more dangerous for not being able to see them coming) and pee and food breaks it will be at least two days. He’s starting to feel anxious. The kind of anticipation that comes with finally being close to safety.

Allison nods. She’s practical. They’ve got a couple of kids in the group, and kids just need more stops than adults do. The good thing is that everyone that they’ve got with them are good people. These days, it’s best to know what kind of person one has watching one’s back.

Robert, a former Marine, starts heading in their direction. He’s taken up the role of Chris’ second in command over the last month. He’s the good, solid type. He doesn’t fuss; he just gets it done.

“We ready?” Chris asks.

Robert nods and scratches at his cheek through the scruff of his beard. “Yep. I think we’re all starting to feel it the closer we get.”

Chris nods, “Yeah. Alright, let’s saddle up. The sooner we’re on the road, the sooner we’re home.”

Home. He never thought he’d ever really consider Beacon Hills home after everything that town has done to him… but honestly? It’s the only place he’s ever really felt _was_ home. He follows Allison toward the old army Jeep Chris had commandeered in Wyoming after they totaled the SUV. Allison slings her bow into the well between the seats, trading it for Chris’ rifle as he gets behind the wheel.

There are still three hundred and forty miles between them and safety.

They can’t let their guard down yet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, Danny and Isaac perform a magical experiment. Chris and Allison approach Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a heads up. There will be a large influx of OC's here very soon.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Ten: _

 

“What do you think about proximity alerts?”

Stiles looks up from the bowl of oatmeal he’s making his way through with confusion, “What?”

Isaac sits down across from him and flattens their map of the city down on the table. Stiles lifts his bowl out of the way. Isaac traces a finger around from point to point. “Proximity alerts. Since we don’t have a wall yet, and we have so few people. Something that will alert us if it senses movement.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him and looks over at Danny who shakes his head. “I don’t have the equipment to build or run a security system. If we had electricity I might could cobble something together, but without it.” Danny shrugs.

Both of them turn to look at Isaac.

“I was thinking more of the magical variety,” he explains. “I mean, you can feel when something is trying to get through the wards.”

“Yeeaaah,” Stiles says slowly.

“So, maybe we could rig up something that we can set up outside the wards to warn us of approaching activity,” Isaac suggests.

“Isaac,” Stiles says. “I’m not an early warning system. Even if I had ever heard of anything like that, I don’t want to be a walking radar.”

“Well…” Isaac’s eyebrows crinkle as he works out how to describe what he means. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, imbue like, a rock, with the ability to differentiate between walkers and humans and wildlife and tie it to, like the map or something.”

“What, like blue for rabbits, red for zombies and green for humans?”

“Yes.” Isaac taps the map again. “Like, say we’ve got rocks all along here, and each can sense a radius of say, ten yards. Then, if they’re linked to a map, when it sensed something passing it, it could ping the map.”

Stiles’ eyebrows scrunch in thought as he considers the option. “I’ve never heard of anything like it, but I did read about how some minor wards can be set into a spell stone and triggered to cover a specific radius. They don’t last long though.”

“But you could do it?”

Stiles gives him a very deadpan look, “You want me to take a vague concept and  _ invent  _ a motion-detecting system out of basically  _ nothing _ ?”

“Yes?”

Stiles sits back with a huff, giving Isaac a narrow eyed look. Danny walks over to the table to look at the map, deep in thought. “It’s not a bad idea,” he decides.

“Says the computer guy that understands systems like that,” Stiles remarks.

“I could help,” Danny offers. “If you know how it works we might be able to rig something up.”

“It could help protect the guys building the wall,” Isaac prompts.

Stiles huffs. “Fine,” he tells the two, “but both of you are helping,  _ and  _ you get to tell Peter that we’re going to be inventing new magic right after I just finished recovering from magical exhaustion.”

Isaac winces, “Not fair.”

“Them’s the breaks, kid,” Stiles replies without sympathy.

Isaac lets out a whining noise. Danny laughs, nodding agreeably.

*

“Think it’ll hold?”

Isaac looks dubiously up at what used to be a church steeple but now could only be called a rickety tower… if one was feeling generous. Most of the main church building is a burnt out husk. The roof is caved in, exposing what little of the interior that didn’t burn to the elements. By some stroke of luck the bell tower is still standing, affording a good view of one of the two main roads into town that are still clear.

“I think I need a tetanus shot just looking at it,” Isaac decides.

Aiden laughs, “You’re a werewolf, you can’t get tetanus.”

“I still need one,” Isaac shrugs.

There’s a splintering sound and a crash as something falls inside the church, and Ethan appears in the doorway. He’s got soot streaked across one cheek and black all over his hands and arms. “I cleared the doorway to the tower,” he tells them. “The stairs look sound.”

“Great,” Isaac deadpans.

“Well,” Aiden offers, “you can always go help crush cars to build the wall and I’ll stay here.”

Isaac gives Aiden an evil look, making both twins laugh at him. Derek is usually a quiet, laid-back (if brooding) kind of guy, but apparently his taskmaster ways when put in charge weren’t a fluke back when Isaac was newly turned. He’s better at construction than being an alpha, but he’s still the kind of micromanaging supervisor that people used to write mean tweets about.

“No thank you,” Isaac says primly. “I’ll take the tetanus.”

“At least you get to be in the shade,” Aiden offers comfortingly. “Mark is stuck on top of that CVS just off the highway across town.”

It’s true that that CVS has a flat roof and therefore no real means of shade. They’d managed to rig up some canvas to give whoever is on watch some cover, but it isn’t much. They’ve only got a watch out there because Danny and the twins had cleared most of the road on their way into town. It’s farther away from the compound, and most people would take one look at the overrun and burned out downtown and change their minds. They expect trouble to come from this side of town.

The church, on the other hand, is just off Highway 48, which was the way through town before the interstate had been built. It was never blocked, and eases into town through the foothills at the edge of the preserve. It’s the ideal route for people looking for shelter and supplies and for anyone looking for trouble.

This is also the direction they’re expecting Allison and Chris to come from.

Isaac accepts the inevitable, shoulders his rifle and heads into the church, leaving the twins to head back toward the construction of the wall where Derek and most of the others are already working. Melissa and Lisa will be hard at work on the garden, close enough to the compound to keep an eye on Lydia.

_ Lydia. _ Isaac is grateful he’s just a werewolf.

Still, he’d rather be with Scott, who’s spending his days slowly clearing each building within the radius of where the wall will be with Parrish.

Isaac sets the stock of the rifle on the window ledge when he reaches the top of the tower, and uses the scope to orient himself. Watches Aiden and Ethan head back into town. Pinpoints where the few walkers that can be seen are. Examines the horizon along the road. He settles in for a long, dull day of watching for cars.

Cars that are even less likely to come down this way than they were before the world ended.

*

Stiles is sitting calmly in the dirt in a corner of the garden. He’s sifting through a large pile of rocks that keeps getting larger as they’re dug up in the process of getting the lot ready for planting. He picks one up, examines it, shakes his head and tosses it over his shoulder. It clatters to the ground and Stiles pays it no mind, concentrating as he is on finding the right rocks for the sentry system they’re developing.

Peter manages to dodge the rock as it flies at him, and crouches down beside the Spark. “Finding any good ones?”

“Maybe,” Stiles mutters. “This would be easier if I could hit that rock and mineral store in the mall across town.”

Peter says nothing, they both know that a trip to the mall for  _ rocks  _ is very low on the priority list. Besides, magic users had been sorting their own conductive rocks for thousands of years before the invention of new age retail, he can handle it. Instead Peter says, “I think the spells are ready.”

Stiles stops picking through the rocks to look up at the werewolf, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter sets his knees into the dirt and Stiles sways into him. “The initial spellwork you wrote out was good, but I think I managed to get it down to a single casting like the new wards.”

Stiles nods as something inside him settles. He rests his weight a little heavier into Peter’s side and lets his vision go unfocused as he gazes at the pile of rocks. He can see the conductivity emanating from a few of them now. He thinks nothing at all of letting his Spark reach for the wolf at his side or of the fact that the wolf reaches back.

Peter sets their cheeks together and rubs, scenting, content in where he is. He knows that Stiles is his anchor. He’s patient, he can wait for Stiles to realize that he is Stiles’ anchor as well. He’s waited this long; a while longer is nothing to him.

“I thought we could test it out at the build site,” Stiles says, sorting through the rocks again, making a small pile of spell worthy rocks. “Derek told me he doesn’t care about being the test subject if it’ll mean they can relax a little while they’re working.”

“It is far enough away from the compound that if something goes wrong it won’t be brought back here.” Peter’s voice is thoughtful, “It makes sense. When are we doing the casting?”

There’s no question that Peter will be there when Stiles does the casting. Danny will be too, if only to satisfy his curiosity. They already have everything they needed except for the rocks that will act as the sensors. Danny tracked down a second map of the city for their use, so all they need is quiet and timing.

“Tonight, after moonrise,” Stiles tells him. He stops sorting through the rocks, having retrieved all that he could find. They have plenty for their experiment, and a good start on what they’ll need if it works and they implement a widespread net.

He doesn’t pull himself out of Peter’s embrace, content to sit in the shade and watch Melissa and Olsen Beardsley teach the little ones about gardening while Lisa dozes in a chair under the only other tree in the lot. None of them begrudge her the rest; raising three kids is exhausting, Stiles can only imagine how much  _ more  _ exhausting it must be at the end of the world.

“I miss Dad,” he murmurs softly.

Peter hums, the only one around to hear him, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

It’s enough for now.

*

“What’s wrong?”

Allison turns her head just a little to look at her father. “I thought I saw something.”

Chris turns his full attention to the treeline, scanning it in the same way that he taught his daughter to. Allison has excellent instincts, if she says she saw something, then she probably did. He narrows his gaze against the glare of the rising sun and waves at Robert to get his attention. The Marine ambles in their direction, going slow and saying his good mornings.

“Night watch catch anything?” Chris asks as soon as he’s in range.

Robert shakes his head. The group is a well-oiled machine by now. Those that can’t be trusted to take night watch, take turns driving. Anyone under the age of fifteen is rotated through to teach them the skills they’ll need to live in the world as it is now. “A couple of stray roamers, nothing they couldn’t handle quietly.”

Chris purses his lips in thought and looks to Allison. She tips her head to the side, crease between her eyebrows betraying her worry. Something ticks at the back of Chris’ senses. A thought strikes him.

In this day and age, men might just be the most dangerous thing.

“Right, pack ‘em up. We’ll eat cold on the road,” Chris decides.

“Something wrong?” Robert asks nonchalantly, tone affable like they’re discussing the weather. He knows the two Argents now. Trusts them with more than just his life. Where Chris says jump, Robert asks how high and who Chris wanted him to kill on the way back down. That’s the kind of good man Chris is. That’s the kind of loyal man Robert is.

“Not yet,” Allison says, “but we shouldn’t stay.”

Robert nods. “Got it. I’ll explain the rush as anticipation of reaching town. Everybody’s ready to get where we’re going.”

“With any luck we’ll be there later this afternoon,” Chris tells him.

Robert knocks on the tree next to him with a wry quirk of his lips and turns, calling out for everyone to get up and at ‘em, they’re moving out. Time’s a wastin’.

“He’s a good man,” Allison says, somewhat fond of the crusty marine after so many weeks in his company. “Think he’ll get on with the wolves?”

“Get on?” Chris asks, turning back to watch the treeline with his daughter. “No. I expect him to  _ be  _ one within the first six weeks.”

Allison laughs silently and turns back to her watch as well. Scott could do far worse than an enforcer like Robert Muldoon. Now, if only the vague feeling that they’re being watched would go away, her morning would be perfect.

*

“I feel really stupid,” Isaac decides out loud. He’s got a bucket full of rocks in one hand, and he’s precisely counting steps in between each one he drops.

Danny laughs at him, “You think you feel stupid, how do you think I’m going to feel if this doesn’t work?”

“It worked on the work site,” Isaac replies. “It did exactly as described. The flashing light warned the guys that something was in the area, and the map lit up to let you know something was wrong.”

“The map has a giant hole burned into it, and Ethan still won’t forgive me for the spots he saw for a couple hours after,” Danny tells him.

“Stiles dialed it down, and they don’t flash anymore,” Isaac tells him, and drops another rock.

The experiment to create a proximity alert system five miles outside of the protected area and around Derek’s work site has been a success… mostly. After a few hiccups, Stiles, Peter and Danny have worked out the bugs, and now they have a working system. The stones tied to the perimeter are linked to the map in Stiles and Peter’s loft. The magical supplies were there, they had all their planning sessions there, and the door was always open. Liam had made a crack about it being the War Room and the name had stuck. It even had a sign, just like Derek’s had a sign labeling it the Armory.

There are two systems. One is the perimeter map, lit with the steady glow of the active stones. It is spelled to alert select people to a problem by heating small stones that each person carries. So far those people are Scott, Stiles, Peter and Derek. The other is a mobile system, one Derek can activate and take down and move. It has a half mile radius and will be moving with the work as the wall is built. It also has a siren that sounds like a bull horn to alert anyone within the perimeter of a problem, since everyone was so against the flashing light.

It allows everyone to relax a little more. With the fact that they will have warning should anyone come within the perimeter (or herds of zombies over thirty in number), it’s a little easier to be okay with the fact that they don’t have the numbers for proper guards. They’re still keeping watch on the two clear roads into town, and they will continue to do so, even after the Argents arrive.

“So, what’s to prevent someone from just picking one of these up and walking away with it?” Isaac wonders as he drops the next rock. It lands with a little thunk and sits inconspicuously amongst the other debris on the ground.

“Nothing, but Stiles managed to rig it so that he or I get alerted if one of them is moved or stops working.”

“Ah, the joy of being Mr. Maintenance,” Isaac says dryly.

Danny shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’m not a wolf, and I don’t have a single drop of magic in me, so I can help this way. Besides, I  _ like  _ stuff like this.”

“Let me guess.” Isaac throws him a teasing look. “You’re already working on figuring out how to get the power back up for when we retake the power station.”

Danny smiles smugly. “And figuring out how to just power the sections of town we want to power, yes.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the werewolf with the scarf collection.”

Isaac stops to snootily flip the end of his scarf over his shoulder mockingly and then flounces forward to drop the next rock. Danny laughs at him.

*

Mason slaps at Liam, making the other boy wake with a jolt and a snort. They’re in the old church taking their turn at watch. Liam grumbles, but after a look at Mason’s stiff spine and how the binoculars are glued to his face, he straightens.

“What, what is it?” he demands.

“Better call Scott,” Mason tells him, voice grim. “I can see cars, and I think they’re being chased.”

Liam pales and fumbles for the police radio sitting on an overturned crate next to the two bottles of water left over from lunch. He flips it on with a crackle of static, then makes sure it’s tuned to the right channel before he speaks into it, “Uh, Scott, this is the Tower, we’ve got company.”

“I’m counting six… no eight cars and two motorcycles,” Mason tells him.

Liam stares, then hits the button on the radio again: “A  _ lot  _ of company.”

_ “We’re on our way, get ready to defend yourselves if you have to.” _

Liam and Mason stare at each other in alarm. Defend themselves? Mason looks back at the cars they can both see now without the binoculars. Liam lunges for the rifle propped next to the window. If he fumbles a little, Mason doesn’t say anything. If his hands are a little sweaty, he doesn’t say anything. Mason puts down the binoculars and picks up his own rifle.

Ready or not, it’s time to see if the shooting lessons they’ve been getting from Parrish and Stiles have stuck.

Out on the road, the cars continue to speed toward town. The sound of gunshots are loud like whip cracks. The two teenagers in the tower swallow, scared but ready.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Allison make a grand entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's life without a little car chase sequence I ask you?

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Eleven: _

 

Thanks to Allison’s instinct for danger, they’re prepared. That insight has saved their lives countless times; Chris has learned to trust it. Because he trusts his daughter, they’re ready for the attack when it comes. They’re also a lot closer to Beacon Hills than they would have been had they not left earlier than planned.

They’re thirty miles outside of town when Jeremiah yells, “Hostiles, two o’clock!” through the crackling of the shitty Walmart walkie talkies they’re using.

Chris glances in the rearview at the short, yellow school bus at the rear of the convoy and yanks the wheel to the right when he sees the two vehicles coming up fast. He grabs for the walkie on the dash as Allison climbs over the seats into the back of the Jeep. With one solid kick the rear window is free and skittering down the road behind them.

“Bridger!” Chris yells into the walkie as the bus whips past the Jeep. Chris yanks the wheel left, bouncing the old army vehicle up onto the road again and sliding into rear guard. The huge black GMC TopKick that is Robert’s truck pulls up next to Chris. “You keep going, no matter what! You drive straight into town and you don’t stop until someone from the McCall Pack stops you!”

The older man driving the RV replies with an affirmative, and the four vehicles carrying the rest of the group accelerate even more toward town. The Beacon Hills city limits sign flashes past. In the back of the TopKick, Bull has somehow managed to squeeze his massive shoulders through the tiny rear window. The huge guy that, at one time, had been a linebacker for the New England Patriots reaches back into the truck to retrieve the rifle that had come with him when he’d found them.

“I’m counting four vehicles!” Allison yells to be heard over the howling of the wind. “And two motorcycles.”

“Right.” Chris puts a gap between the Jeep and the truck, just big enough to be tempting, then speaks into the walkie, “Robert, they don’t get past us. We make it to the edge of town and we’ll have reinforcements, but they don’t get past us until then.”

“ _ You got it, boss _ ,” crackles over the little radio.

“I’ve got a shot,” Allison informs him. “Firing.”

The shot echoes in the cabin of the Jeep. Chris’ ears ring, but in the sideview mirror he can see one of the motorcycles go down. The cars behind them accelerate even more in response. Then the first bullet hits their vehicle. Metallic pings and the shatter of glass as a lucky shot gets one of the side windows. In the truck next to them, Bull begins firing, though they can’t hear the shots.

Then Robert hits the brakes on the truck, and the Jeep leaps past the black vehicle.

There’s a crunching sound, and the screech of metal warping.

“Hold on!” Chris yells at his daughter, then hits the brake, pops the clutch and spins the wheel. The tires squeal, leaving black streaks across the blacktop and the scent of burning rubber. Chris finishes the one-eighty still moving, and guns it back toward the truck.

Allison leans out the shattered window and takes two shots. She gets the driver of the car that Robert had made plow directly into the rear end of the truck, and she gets one in the shoulder of the man fighting with Bull. Bull gets his arms around the man and squeezes.

Robert has effectively blocked three quarters of the road, but the truck is a dead stick. They can all hear the yelling and the shots pinging off the two vehicles as Chris turns the wheel and comes to a stop half turned away from the truck.

“Time to go, Bull!” he yells out his lowered window.

Allison hauls herself out the window of the Jeep so that she’s seated on the sill of the window. She props her rifle on the roof of the car and takes a couple more shots over the top of the truck to cover Robert as he climbs out of the truck and dashes in their direction. Bull drops the unconscious victim of his bear hug and follows.

Robert makes it to the seat behind Chris, but Bull has to fling himself through the back window as the second motorcycle zips around the wreckage, and the person seated behind the driver starts to fire.

Chris hits the accelerator, and the the jeep leaps forward, turning back toward town. Robert leaves his door hanging open to lean over and latch onto Allison’s leg, keeping her from losing her seat half out of the car.

Suddenly the motorcycle sways, the driver slumping over. The passenger scrambles to right the machine, but it does no good. A bullet hits the gas tank, and the bike explodes.

“Was that you?” Allison yells into the jeep at Bull.

“No!” Bull yells back, voice deep and bone-rattling like always. “I thought it was you!”

Two of the cars pursuing them make it past the wreckage and don’t stop to even ponder the flaming motorcycle. Chris puts his foot to the floor. Allison starts firing, and Bull joins her. Robert gets his door all the way closed and leans between the front seats to point out the windscreen.

“What the hell is that?!”

Chris focuses his attention in front of them and can’t help the manic grin that crosses his face. “That,” he says, violence in his voice, “is backup.”

“That” is a semi truck, the kind used to haul gravel or stone. It blares the air horn as it passes the jeep.

“Some backup,” Robert says mildly.

From outside the car, Allison whoops.

*

As soon as the call comes in, they all know instinctively that this is Allison and Chris making a grand entrance. Scott and Jordan look at each other and abandon the supplies they’re gathering. Jordan makes sure to secure the door and make note of their location so that they can come back and continue where they left off. Scott is loading shells into Jordan’s rifle as the deputy gets behind the wheel of the Sheriff’s Dept SUV he’s made his own.

Of the two of them, Jordan is the better driver. Scott’s good on two wheels, but four escape him at regular speeds. Instead, the Alpha preps the weapons as Jordan takes a hairpin turn on two wheels and settles in next to Stiles’ jeep.

Ahead of them, a huge truck that proclaims that it had once belonged to JM Construction pulls out in front of them. Derek is at the wheel, because that’s the truck he's been using out at the wall site. That means that he’s probably got at least the twins with him, probably Cora and Mark as well.

Peter is driving the jeep, and Stiles has a look of fierce concentration on his face.

*

Jonah Bridger had thought he’d seen the worst humanity had to offer in Vietnam. He’d been wrong of course, but he hadn’t known that until he’d watched other human beings eat each other. He’d lost his wife to pneumonia a few years before, and had since taken to driving across the country in their old Winnebago, visiting all the places he and Florence had talked about visiting but never did. When the world began to end, it had just made sense to keep moving.

Then Jonah had met Chris and Allison outside Chicago. He’d been one of a few that had set up camp about sixty miles outside the city instead of going to the refugee center in the city. Good thing too, because the next thing anyone knew, Chicago had been on fire. Of that small group, there was a man and his three kids, and a pair of siblings still with them. The rest had chosen to go their own way.

As for Jonah, he trusted Chris Argent. It was something about the eyes.

More than half way across the country later, and Jonah still trusts Chris Argent. So, when the man tells him to floor it, he doesn’t hesitate. He floors the RV and leads the two sedans and the bus toward the town that has been their goal for the last three months. The aged engine rumbles in protest of being forced to go faster than it likes, but it goes.

Behind the small convoy, gunfire can be heard.

Jonah sends up a prayer that the people they’ve been trying to reach are still here.

*

“That RV and bus are getting closer,” Liam says, eyeing the two larger cars that have stayed behind to give the rest a chance to get to cover.

“You stay here,” Mason says, climbing to his feet, “You’re the better shot.”

Liam doesn’t respond, he doesn’t take his eyes off the car chase happening on the edge of his sights. He listens to Mason’s footsteps get fainter, and then the RV crosses his vision at top speed. He concentrates, waiting for a clear target.

Mason clambers down the rickety church steps as fast as he can. They creak in protest, but then, they always do. He dashes out of the half burned building and out onto the street just in time to see the old Winnebago hurtling toward him. He raises his rifle, waving his arms, and starts running.

The driver must spot him, because the vehicle slows and swerves to follow after him.

Mason runs around the corner toward the little corner gas station a block down. They set it up as an obvious receiving point for newcomers. The parking lot is clear of cars (all sacrifices for Derek’s wall) with a big sign that basically says to park here, someone will come to greet them.

The RV, two smaller cars, and the school bus roll past Mason into the lot just as a single shot rings from the bell tower. It makes him look back toward where he knows Liam is watching the pursuit. Just in time to see a flash of fire and a cloud of angry black smoke erupt into the sky. His eyebrows go up in surprise, Liam must have gotten in a lucky shot.

“Hey, kid!”

Mason turns back to see a large group of people pouring out of the cars. There are more than ten, but he’s too busy trying not to panic to count them. Especially when he spots the older man and the short, angry looking bear of a man at his side.

He swallows hard, “Hi! Welcome to Beacon Hills?”

The two men exchange a look, but before either of them can make any demands, an air horn blares and Derek and Cora blast past in one of the huge construction vehicles, followed closely by Jordan’s Sheriff’s Dept SUV, lights flashing and Roscoe, Stiles’ jeep.

“Oh, good,” Mason says, brightening. “Reinforcements.”

Another billow of black smoke roils into the sky beyond the church, and the gunfire stops a few moments later.

“Is it over?” a woman asks.

The radio clipped to Mason’s jeans crackles to life:  _ “Status report, Mason.” _

He fumbles for the black box, lifting it and saying, “We’re good. They parked in the lot at the corner store. Liam’s still on lookout. We clear?”

Scott’s voice comes through layered with static,  _ “We’re clear. Road’s blocked, but no casualties on our side. Stiles is on his way to you.” _

“Oh, good,” Mason says. Stiles (and Peter, probably) are better suited to settle down the restless natives than a fifteen year old kid with a rifle nearly as big as he is. He turns to face the impatient crowd and offers up a strained smile. The old man’s eyes narrow, but he keeps his peace, obviously willing to wait for an adult.

He’s going to be highly surprised at what counts for an adult around here, if that’s the case.

Mason smiles weakly, and wishes that he was back up in the bell tower with Liam.

*

Derek drives the semi headfirst into the Humvee coming up on the wreckage. He’s a bigger, heavier, much more immovable object than the other, so it’s no surprise when the Humvee goes nose down and the rear end pitches up, rolling ass over teakettle across the road until the wreckage of a black pickup, an SUV of some kind and a motorcycle stop its progress.

The Sheriff’s Department SUV goes blaring past, swinging around to use the vast majority of its’ bulk to block the jeep from their attackers. Both Jordan and Scott are out of the vehicle in seconds. Scott leaps across the distance between himself and their final attacker, fangs out and eyes red. Jordan’s got his rifle aimed over the top of the driver’s door, just in case any of the rest of the pursuit vehicles try anything before Derek’s makeshift tank can recover.

Stiles’ unmistakable jeep rolls to a stop right next to Chris as the semi rolls out of the way, smoke starting to pour out from under the hood.

“Stiles!” Scott yells as Jordan begins to fire back at the men climbing out of the overturned humvee. “Slag it!”

Stiles looks different from what Chris or Allison remember. He’s thinner, his cheekbones sharper, the look in his eyes more dangerous than before. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, and there are black markings up and down his arms. He leaps out of the jeep in the same breath as he throws the first white-hot fireball past them.

Two more follow in quick succession, until the heat and a lucky hit get the gas tank of the Humvee. A giant fireball and black smoke roll into the sky with a flash and a roar. The four travelers flinch instinctively as the heat rolls over them.

“Stiles?” Allison asks softly, eyes wide.

Stiles turns to look at her, and his eyes are glowing faintly, like there’s still more fire charged up inside him with nowhere to go.

“Allison!” Scott’s across the road in a flash and lifting Allison off her feet in a hug so tight and relieved she can’t do anything but hug him back, despite the fact that he’s squeezing too tightly.

Peter appears at Stiles elbow, making Chris flinch at the sudden appearance of a wolf who has tried to kill him (and that he’s tried to kill) on several occasions. Confusion grows inside him as Peter gently sets his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and says, “It’s okay, everyone is safe, let it go.”

For a moment, Stiles looks torn between throwing another fireball and doing what Peter is asking, and Chris feels the crystal realization that something has happened to cause these changes in Stiles. Stiles is different, and not just in the way all of them are. It’s sharper, more pronounced. His suspicions grow when a look around doesn’t reveal the Sheriff.

“Stiles,” Peter says gently, ducking to capture that eerie gaze. He scents along Stiles’ neck and with a flash like a camera going off and the sizzle of electricity, Stiles releases the power he’s gathered back into the earth at his feet. Stiles staggers at the loss, suddenly exhausted, and leans into Peter.

“Stiles,” Scott suggests, coming up next to Chris, his arm still wrapped around Allison. A single look from the Alpha tells Chris not to ask within Stiles’ earshot. “Why don’t you and Peter go and let the rest of Chris’ people know everyone is okay and lead them back to the compound. We’ll let Mom know you’re coming.”

Stiles blinks, and the sharp edge to his face seems to fade a little as he comes back to himself, “Yeah, okay.”

Peter nods seriously to Scott and follows.

Chris waits until the jeep has turned and is making its’ way back into town to ask: “What happened to him?”

Derek and Cora appear with the twins and the Beacon Hills group exchange grim looks. “The Sheriff was killed,” Derek says flatly, meeting Chris’ gaze directly. “He blew up half of State Street and most of the police department.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago,” Scott says, his hand flexing on Allison’s shoulder. “When things got bad, but before the end.”

“It changed him, didn’t it?” Allison asks softly.

“He’s a lot more protective now,” Scott tells her grimly, then changes the subject by offering his hand to Robert. “Scott McCall, Alpha of Beacon Hills.”

“Robert Muldoon, this is Bull.”

“Nice to meet you. Come on, you guys can follow us.” Scott turns to Derek, “Are you heading back to the wall?”

“Cora and I are,” Derek tells him. “The twins are going to take over watch duty just in case.”

Scott nods, “Probably a good idea.”

“Wall?” Bull rumbles.

Scott grins and claps him on the shoulder, “Come on, we’ll show you the way home, and then we’ll talk.”

*

“Are you okay?”

“It’s all been theory up ‘til now, hasn’t it?” Stiles doesn’t look at Peter, so he doesn’t see the way his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “It’s all been about figuring out  _ how  _ to make it work, and now that it does…”

“You’re not sure you like the way it made you feel?” Peter prompts. He knows that feeling all too well.

Stiles nods, and finally glances over at his wolf. “Offensive magic feels a lot different from ward making and shields and mountain ash circles.”

“That’s because by its very nature, combat magic is violent.”

“It reminded me of what I felt like right after the Nogitsune, when Allison was in the hospital and everyone was looking at me like I was going to shatter.”

Peter knows the exact feeling. “And all you feel like doing is ripping it all to shreds.”

Stiles nods again. He looks back out the window as they turn the corner and the gas station comes into view. The parking lot is filled with milling people, and these ones are alive. He sits up in his seat and begins to roll down the sleeves of his shirt so that the rapidly flaking runes can’t be seen. “This is gonna be awkward,” he remarks.

“Practice,” Peter says dryly. “For the future.”

Stiles snorts, “It’s hilarious how you’re our most diplomatic pack member.”

Peter grins at him with fangs as he parks the jeep before he gets out of the vehicle to rescue a scared-looking Mason from the people demanding answers. Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths and follows.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new arrivals are introduced to life in Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on OCs: Trying to keep track of this many OC's is a pain in the persqueeter. I want to swear never again, but we all know I'd be lying. Some of them are emphasized more than others depending on their significance to the story. I hope all of them have enough dimension to be believable.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twelve: _

 

The trip to the compound takes the convoy past the wall, where Derek, Mark, Cora and Finstock are actively working. As soon as it comes into sight, muttering breaks out inside the bus. It’s not any more than two cars laid end to end, but it’s twenty feet high and still an impressive sight.

“Is that a wall?” Marigold Abrams asks.

It certainly looks like the start of a huge wall. Jonah and Oscar look at each other with telling expressions. As much as they trust Chris Argent, these people that they found at journey’s end are strange. It’s understandable to have a teenager on lookout, there are too few people around to not require growing up a little faster…

But the others…

They had expected the older one to take the lead. Peter Hale wears a certain amount of authority around him to make all of them feel like he’d be in charge, but he isn’t. He had loomed at the other’s back, silent, intimidating and with an aura of terrifying competence. He’d introduced himself, but had otherwise said nothing until they were getting ready to load up.

There was something off about the man. Dangerous.

The other one, Stiles Stilinski had greeted them with a grin and enough snark that Jonah knew that this was the man behaving himself. He was sharp around the edges, like he’d been broken and was in the process of putting himself back together. It wasn’t that he’d broken that worried Jonah or Oscar; they were all a little broken now. It was the fact that he’d broken so thoroughly as to look so sharp around the edges.

Something about Stiles said he was both dangerous and not dangerous. It was weird, and Peter obviously deferred to him, which meant Stiles had authority.

If Stiles and Peter were the greeting party, what were the rest of their people like?

“Looks like it’s going to be a hell of a wall,” Oscar remarks as they pass it. He notes the big truck that had driven past them earlier. The front end is dented a bit, looking worse for wear, but apparently the driver was fine if they were back to work. “Whoever these people are, they’ve got a plan.”

“Chris trusts them,” Marigold reminds the two men gently.

That’s the clincher, isn’t it? Chris trusts them, and they trust Chris.

Chris had warned them that they were headed into the arms of a pack of werewolves. No one had believed the Argents at first, but an encounter with a werewolf in Montana had secured their belief. They’d picked up a couple more people in Idaho, but most of them had been there and watched the man transform, watched Chris pump it full of lead. They had watched the werewolf as it shook off the bullets and kept coming until Allison had shot it with an arrow that had been covered in wolfsbane (they had learned this later).

Something like that makes a person a believer.

A few miles past the wall and something like static electricity passes through the convoy. Most of them brush it off. No one says anything. Ahead of them, the old, blue Jeep Wrangler carrying Stiles and Peter turns left and suddenly the street is clear. There are no cars along the road, no bodies. If it wasn’t for the fact that there’s no one around, you wouldn’t be able to tell that the apocalypse had happened.

“Wow,” Trevor, Marigold’s ten-year-old says, voicing the thoughts of more than one of them. He’s pressed against the window of the bus, trying to take in what is supposed to be their new home as Jonah drives into the parking lot.

It’s a trio of warehouses and an empty lot set on the four corners of an intersection. One of the warehouses is obviously occupied, another looks like it’s standing ready, and the third looks like it’s under construction for some reason. The most impressive thing is the empty lot across the street. There’s nothing in it now, but it has obviously been turned into a garden. Steady rows of overturned earth, a few with seedlings planted in them.

Jonah parks away from the line of cars already in the parking lot to make unloading people and gear easier. Oscar gets off first, Jonah last.

“Is everyone okay?”

There’s a pretty woman with dark curly hair hugging Stiles when Oscar reaches them. After she releases Stiles, she hugs Peter, who nods in confirmation to her when Stiles tells her they’re all fine. She loves Stiles, obviously, but there’s something there that makes her look to Peter to make sure.

“Mom,” Stiles says, and it’s obvious by the way he says it and the way it makes the woman smile that he’s only just recently started calling her mom, “This is Oscar, he’s one of Chris’ guys.”

“Chris and Allison made it?” she asks, her smile widening. She holds her hand out to Oscar, “Welcome to Beacon Hills, I’m Melissa.”

Oscar shakes her hand, “Thanks.”

Before anything else can be said, a police SUV and Chris’ army Jeep roll into the parking lot. Neither of the men who get out of the SUV are wearing uniforms, but the older one is wearing a standard issue utility belt like it belongs there, so the SUV is probably his. The red fire axe on his shoulder isn’t standard issue, however.

Melissa excuses herself and rushes across the lot, beaming. She hugs the younger of the two men first before she greets both of the Argent’s with a hug and a tearful smile. 

“I’m so glad you’re both okay!” she exclaims. Chris returns the hug like she’s an old friend he’s happy to see. Allison positively melts into the woman’s embrace.

“Where is everyone?” Allison asks, even as she’s quickly closing the gap between herself and Stiles, who accepts her hug with equal ferocity. “Lydia? Isaac? Danny?”

“Isaac and Danny went to get a look at the power station,” Melissa tells her with a significant look at Scott.

“They’re scouting it?” Scott asks, and suddenly Oscar can see it. No matter the ages of anyone they find here, this young man is in charge. He’s the Alpha.

“Danny wanted to get a look at it,” Melissa reassures the man that is obviously her son. “There’s no point in going in to clear it out if it’s damaged. We can’t repair it at this point. Danny’s smart, but he’s not an electrician of any kind.”

“Electrician?” Chris asks. “We’ve got one of those. Frank!”

Frank Morelli looks up from where he’s helping unload bags of personal belongings and ambles over to them. He’s average in height, and chock full of New Jersey piss and vinegar. “What?”

“They’re planning to retake one of the power stations,” Chris tells him with a grin. Frank gets a manic glint in his eye as Chris claps him on the shoulder. “This is Scott McCall, Alpha of Beacon Hills, and he could sure use a power guy.”

Scott grins and shakes Frank’s hand, “Nice to meet you. Danny will be delighted for whatever help you can give. He was a computer science major before the world ended, not an electricity guy.”

“Come on,” Melissa says, raising her voice cheerfully so that she catches the attention of the milling newcomers. “You all must be exhausted and hungry. Lisa’s got lunch going in the mess, I think we can talk and eat at the same time.”

There are murmurs of appreciation, and everyone starts to follow Melissa.

Allison grabs Scott’s arm, “Scott, where’s Lydia?”

Scott and Stiles exchange a look, and Stiles reaches out and takes Allison’s hand. He looks her in the eyes grimly. “She’s going to be very happy to see you, Alli.”

Scott excuses himself apologetically, because as much as he wants to stay for this, he’s got a large group of people who are going to want answers. He’s in charge of more now than he ever was.

“What happened Stiles?” Allison asks worriedly.

“She’s a Banshee, Allison,” Stiles tells her gently. “What do you think happened?”

*

“When did the wards go up?” Chris asks once everyone is settled at tables in the converted mess hall. The kitchen is mostly camp stoves currently, but they’re in the process of installing real appliances in anticipation of having real power. The room is the vast majority of the ground floor of one of the warehouses that are the compound. Chris has a paper bowl full of chili and a slice of cornbread.

“A couple of weeks ago,” Scott replies. “After Stiles figured out what they needed to consist of. The ones he put up before that just went around the lofts, and was mostly cobbled together in the early days. These ones are solid, and extend in a three block radius from the center of the intersection outside.”

“So nothing can get through them?”

“Nothing with ill intention, and certainly not the dead.”

The wary tension in the room eases at that statement. Scott’s voice is absolutely certain. Nothing’s getting past Stiles’ wards.

“What about keeping watch?” Robert asks. “Even with a barrier like that, shouldn’t you still be keeping watch?”

Scott grins at that, but it’s Jordan who speaks as he props himself against the table. “Oh, we fixed that. There are too few of us to patrol regularly and build the walls, so Stiles and Danny designed an early warning system. It’s magical, but it works a lot like any old surveillance system. It’s set about five miles out around the wards, it senses motion and what caused the motion, as well as the intent of whoever or whatever goes past.”

Bull whistles lowly, “That’s impressive.”

Jordan nods, “They even built a portable version. That’s set up around the wall site right now, so that Derek and the others will have some protection while they work. The only lookouts we’ve got are on the two open ways into town.”

“I’m not sure you’ll need the one anymore,” Chris remarks dryly. They’d pretty thoroughly blocked the road an hour ago.

Scott shakes his head, amused, “I think we’ll keep a lookout anyway. That part of town isn’t as overrun as others, people could decide to risk trying to clear the road to get in.”

“So, what? Build a wall and what?” someone demands.

Scott looks around, meeting people’s eyes seriously. “We live. We build a wall and we rebuild our lives. Just because the world ended doesn’t mean we have to.”

“So we become a community?” Marigold remarks thoughtfully. “Maybe even take in more people.”

“That’s the goal,” Scott tells her. “Just because things are different now doesn’t mean we have to give up. I still believe we can live our lives, be happy. We just need each other more than we did before.”

“World’s more dangerous now,” Jonah says. He’s old enough, and he’s gained enough respect that the others listen to him when he speaks. “So are the people in it.”

“True, but not everyone that’s going to come to our gate is going to have evil intentions,” Scott tells him. “Some people are just going to want safety and to live their lives. We still need each other, no matter how dangerous the world has gotten.”

Jonah nods in agreement. “And how do you plan to decide who is good and who isn’t? Who’s lying about really wanting to be here or not? What’s to stop someone from getting in, and then blowing a hole in your wall?”

The grin that crosses Scott’s face is positively bloodthirsty, and it reminds everyone that this man is a wolf. “Well, for one, the wards can sense intent. You can’t cross them if you intend to harm anyone on the other side of them, and we’ve got plans to expand the wards once the wall is up. And for two, well, didn’t Chris tell you? Werewolves can hear your hearts beating, we can literally hear it when you’re lying.”

“Every newcomer to Beacon Hills will be interviewed by a member of the Pack,” Jordan states calmly. “Mostly to figure out where that person can help the most. If we’re going to be a community, everyone has to help out, so everyone will get a job.”

No one quite knows what to say to that. A couple of people shift uncomfortably at the idea that a werewolf can tell when they’re lying, but others can see why this would be a good thing.

The question becomes this: do they trust Chris enough to stay and give this place a chance or not?

*

“Oh, Lydia.” Allison climbs onto the edge of the bed where Lydia is curled up, asleep. Her friend is gaunt and pale with purple shadows under her eyes and a worried frown even in sleep. Allison cards her fingers through Lydia’s hair gently.

“She could feel them dying and coming back,” Stiles says softly from the doorway. “Thousands of people all over. It started in Boston, but her plane was grounded in Oakland and she had to drive the rest of the way.”

“The wards protect her, don’t they?”

“The damage was already done by the time I figured out how to make the right adjustments,” Stiles’ gaze on Lydia’s form isn’t pity. It’s just sadness. “And once I did she was trapped in this loft until I could figure out how to integrate them into the regular wards.”

“Can she still feel them?” Allison asks, meeting Stiles’ gaze with her own.

“Not inside the wards,” Stiles replies. He enters the room and sits on the edge of the bed. “She can still feel things, and her connection with all of us has grown. Aiden helps shut it all out somehow.”

They gaze at the sleeping woman for a few minutes, and then Stiles gets up and heads for the door. He pauses in the doorway and looks back at Allison. “She’ll be happy you’re home. We all are.”

*

It takes a few days before they really start settling in. It takes Mark Beardsley telling the story of how the pack had rescued his family at the cost of one of their own for people to start trusting that none of the wolves are going to lose it like the one in Montana had. Bobby Finstock laughs at people outright when asked his opinion. The idea that Scott McCall would deliberately hurt anyone tickles his inappropriate funny bone.

Oscar is the first to really observe the wide berth people give Peter. Most of the wolves trust him, but there’s history there. The teenagers in Finstock’s care are scared of him, though they’ll never admit it. Peter isn’t that intimidating in stature. He’s of average height and build, but there’s something in the way he watches everything. The way he walks. He’s a predator, but he’s also a predator that’s on their side.

Scott’s just generally  _ good.  _ He’s a good man, with good ideals. He treats everyone equally and expects equal treatment back. He’s a good leader. The first time anyone hears the phrase True Alpha, Chris has to explain it. Alpha through sheer force of will.

Derek and Cora are taciturn and snarky in turns. Derek glowers, but his bark is worse than his bite. The wall is his project. Cora earns their respect when a few of them go with her, Isaac, Scott and Jordan to clear out the Walmart (and the adjacent Home Depot) and get anything they can from it. They find a small group of zombies, and instead of letting them rip a couple of the newcomers apart, Cora wolfs out and outright kills three of them, and then uses enough strength to take the other two straight through the cinderblock wall with her.

Melissa and the Beardsleys are generally kind. Malia, Liam and Mason are teenagers. They’ve lost a lot but seem okay if a little standoffish. Liam seems to be holding a grudge for how Jonah and Oscar had treated Mason that first day, though Mason doesn’t seem to care at all. Everyone likes Danny, who is generally just calm and cheerful.

The strangeness seems to come from just a few of them. Jordan is a cop, reliable and strong, but everyone can tell there’s something more about him. The twins are generally confusing. None of them have seen the red haired girl that drifts around the main warehouse close up. She’s a  _ Banshee  _ someone hears. She can feel the dead. The glimpses anyone gets of her are fleeting and haunting.

Then there’s Stiles.

Stiles is… odd. Consensus is that he’s generally likeable, if a little off. There’s something strong about him, like bedrock, but also something brittle around his edges. From day one, they all know that it’s Stiles that protects them on a basic level. It’s his power that put up the wards. It’s his power that set up the early warning system. It’s strange because he just looks so  _ normal _ .

He’s not. If Peter is dangerous on his own, and Stiles powerful, then together they’re lethal.

Bull tells them about it afterward, and it quickly becomes one of those stories that will be told to newcomers in the future. Peter and Stiles go on the raid to Walmart. Scott doesn’t trust Peter as much as he trusts his other wolves, but he trusts Peter with Stiles.

When Cora charges into the zombies, Peter and Stiles wade in behind her. Stiles with his barbed wire wrapped baseball bat, Peter with his claws and a machete in one hand. Scott lets them take the lead and guides the rest of them into clearing the doorways and barricading the exits so that no more zombies can get in.

Everyone can tell why instantly.

Stiles and Peter together don’t need a lot of backup. They’ve had years to get to know each other, and the last four months to figure out how they work together. The .45 Stiles pulls with his empty hand barks with unerring accuracy. The first fireball he throws surprises everyone. Peter proves himself a wolf when he transforms and rips the head off a zombie with his bare hands and a snarl.

They’re scary, but everyone also learns very quickly that they’re also  _ not  _ scary.

It makes them hard to quantify.

At the end of the first week, the group gathers in one of the spaces in the warehouse that’s still being converted into living spaces. Most of them have chosen to take up residence here instead of across the street where the pack is. Chris and Allison are notably absent, it’s already known that they’re staying no matter what everyone decides.

“So, what do we think?” Robert has already made his choice. He likes it here. He like the wolves. He isn’t sure he could let the rest leave without him though.

“I think this is a good place for us.” Frank is the first one to say anything. He’s spent the majority of the last week with Danny. Where Danny goes, so goes Ethan. “The plans they’ve got for what they want to build are impressive. The plan they’ve got to retake the power station is sound.”

“That wall of Derek’s is gonna be a hell of a thing,” Blake says in his Louisiana drawl. “The plans for that thing are more solid than some of the projects I worked on before. It’s gonna be near impossible to get through when it’s finished, and they’re gonna encompass a twenty-mile square to boot.”

“They really are planning on taking in people, aren’t they?” Marigold remarks.

That’s the crux of it. Scott wants to rebuild the world, bring people together. He’s got plans and people who believe in him. He’s actively doing the work toward fulfilling that goal.

“Scott’s a good guy,” Robert says thoughtfully. “If a little naive about the kind of people that might come knocking on his door. Chris trusts him with his life. He’s reliable, too. Always willing to stop and talk things out, even if he does seem a little too trusting.”

“That’s what Stiles and Peter are for,” Jonah says. “Common sense and brutality sitting at his left hand? Scott’s got a pair of enforcers there that would make anyone think twice.”

“What’s their story?” Marigold asks. Next to her, her older son shifts his weight. She was reluctant to let him hang around for this, but in the end had relented.

“Liam and Mason say that Stiles’ dad was the Sheriff here before. He died before they got here, but it wasn’t too soon before. They say he changed after that. Liam thinks that if it wasn’t for Peter, Stiles might have just lost it.” Daniel’s been spending his time with the only other kids his age, and apparently he’s been putting that time to good use. “Mason likes Stiles.”

“The question is,” Bull rumbles out, “are we staying?”

The fourteen adults in the room look around at each other. No one says anything, but a few of them nod their consent.

“Right,” says Robert. “We’re staying.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia makes progress, and a raid is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time this chapter came around I thought I was done world building. But no, my muse was like "No you aren't, we need more werewolf lore!" and so, here you have it.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Thirteen: _

 

“Are you sure?”

Lydia isn’t sure, not about anything anymore. She doesn’t say it, but the look she gives Aiden makes him snort and grin at her. They haven’t been together for a long time; not since Lydia went to MIT. Having him here now makes her wonder how she ever insisted that they split up.

Life with Aiden is not like life with Jackson was. Life with Aiden is hard and messy, true, but Lydia has never second-guessed what Aiden is. After the loss of his Alpha-power, Aiden did everything he could to prove himself to Lydia. He protected her against the Nogitsune, nearly losing his life. After that, she had never questioned his loyalty to her.

And with Aiden, there is something there that soothes the banshee inside her. Being in physical proximity to him quiets the noise constantly at the back of her mind. The dead don’t scream as loudly. Don’t overwhelm her. It makes her want to try.

“Say the word and we’ll come back,” Aiden says and takes her hand in his, letting her lead him out of the loft.

“Damn right,” Lydia says, making him laugh.

She’s been able to leave the loft for weeks now. Stiles’ ability to create wards has gone from zero to sixty in nothing flat. That was the way that Stiles worked. He can learn anything he wants, so long as he has the desire or the pressing need to do so. Danger and the need to protect the people he cares about drive him. It has allowed him to go from cobbling wards together to try to do what he wants, to creating his own.

So now Lydia can leave the loft. She can even leave the building. Not that she has.

“So, where are we going?” Aiden wonders as he opens the door to the outside world for her.

Lydia stops in the doorway, squinting in the sunlight and breathing in the scent of sun-baked earth and asphalt. “I don’t know,” she decides, squeezing his hand, “but we’re going.”

*

Marigold has trusted Chris Argent since the day he saved her sons from a horde of zombies. He’s helped her keep her boys alive, he’s even saved her. Allison is like her father, fierce and strong and Marigold trusts her… but she’s not sure she trusts these new people. Not yet.

Yes, all this time the goal has been to reach Beacon Hills and the people waiting there, but now that they’re here, the people aren’t what Marigold had been expecting. She knows that her children have a greater chance of survival in this new world living under the protection of a pack of werewolves.

But they aren’t just werewolves.

She doesn’t know what that deputy, Parrish, is but people aren’t naturally fireproof. She’s still reeling over watching him intervene and prevent little Robin Beardsley from falling into last night’s fire pit by stepping into the flames himself as he lifted the toddler out of range. That had been frightening to watch, but Parrish had just handed Robin to her father, stepped out of the fire and patted down his pants to put them out.

His skin had been unblemished, and the Beardsley’s had acted like seeing undamaged skin below burnt pants was nothing at all. Marigold can still smell the burning of his jeans and feel the abrupt pounding of her heart.

Whatever Parrish is, he’s not a wolf and he’s not human and no one can tell her what he is.

And then there’s that girl, Lydia. The one with the red hair and the faraway expression and wary eyes. There is something  _ other  _ about her, too. Looking into her eyes at breakfast this morning had been like dipping her soul into an icy lake. Like Lydia could see inside her and found her wanting.

“You’re thinking very hard,” a voice says, making her flinch and turn.

Lisa Beardsley is standing a few feet away. She’s removing a pair of gardening gloves and watching Marigold with kind eyes. Marigold has been sitting in the corner of the garden all morning, thinking. Lisa has been kind to give her the space. Marigold hopes that whoever Alan Deaton had been, that he wouldn’t mind sharing the space under his tree with a worried mother.

“Who was he?” Marigold asks, eyes flickering to the large rock serving as a headstone.

“He was a good man,” Lisa says, then steps up to brush a few stray leaves off the rock. She turns her head to look at Marigold, and Marigold knows deep down that this is one mother speaking to another. “He saved my children and died for it.”

“Is that how…?”

“How we came here?” Lisa finishes the question, quirking a smile. “Yes. If it wasn’t for him and some of the others, my children would have been eaten alive, and there would have been nothing I could have done. They saved our lives and took us in.”

“What are they?”

Lisa finally turns her head to look Marigold in the eyes. She knows that the older woman is asking about werewolves and banshees and sparks, but instead she tells her the only thing that matters to Lisa as a mother.

“They’re safe.”

*

“I don’t think I like this plan,” Stiles declares.

Chris and Robert sidle into the loft that serves as a war room for the pack. It had been a surprise for Robert to be included in the invitation to the planning session, but he’s grateful for the opportunity. He may have decided to stay, but he doesn’t know these people.

“That’s why we’re talking about it,” Scott says. He’s standing at the table bent over a map of the power station they’re planning to retake. There are two maps of the city on one wall behind the table. One is clearly marked with the current boundary of the compound, the wards, Derek’s wall site, and a steadily glowing dot for the early warning system. The other has red Xs all over it, indicating areas that are overrun; yellow circles, for places they need to secure; and green squares, for places they’ve already secured.

“Look,” Danny says, interrupting what looks like an old argument. “No plan is going to survive first contact, we all know that by now. That doesn’t change the fact that we need to get the station up and running. Now that we’re occupying all three warehouses, we’re burning more fuel running the generators than we can replace safely.”

“I know that,” Stiles tells him. He gets up and walks over to the table and unearths a map that is clearly a blown up copy of that area of town. “This plan sucks. We can’t approach the station like this. We already know the fence was breached, which means we don’t know how many walkers we’re going to run into.”

“We need to get here,” Danny says, pointing at a specific room on the plans for the station. “Frank says he can find out if we can get the station back up if we can get him in there.”

“Which one is Frank?” Scott asks. Robert has learned over the last week, that while Scott is a good leader and a kind person, he’s better at remembering faces than he is at putting a name to said face.

“The loud one,” Chris says, announcing their presence.

Scott laughs, “Which loud one?”

It’s a dig at someone in the room, but no one rises to it, making Scott’s expression dim. He eyes Stiles in a sideways manner, and Robert realises that he’s trying to get a rise out of the other man. There’s something grim about the set of Stiles’ mouth that is obviously not a change that Scott likes.

They’ve all heard the story of how the Sheriff was killed and who he was to Stiles. About how his death changed him.

Robert decides to ignore all of this, and instead steps up to the table, “Why not go in from two sides?”

“You want us to split up?” Peter asks, making his presence known. His voice is deceptively mild, unlike his gaze when he pins Robert with it.

“If you send in a team through the front gate here -” Robert points at the entrance to the property, then over to the X that marks where the breach in the fence is “- and here, then we can seal it up behind us. Whoever goes through the fence can take the supplies they’d need to repair the hole in the fence.”

Peter quirks an eyebrow, but Robert hasn’t been around him enough to even begin trying to read the man’s microexpressions. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to.

“That could work,” Scott says thoughtfully.

“The team at the fence would have to be wolves,” Chris is thinking out loud. He’s developed the habit over the last couple years since Allison took an active role in hunting and made him swear not to keep things from her. “That fence is going to be thick with bodies. Us puny humans would only be able to hold off the zombies or repair the fence, not both.”

“If Derek and that construction guy, Blake, are on the team, they can probably seal the breach just the two of them. The rest of the team could concentrate on keeping the dead off them for long enough to do what they need to.”

“Derek isn’t going to like that,” Peter cautions. “You know how he feels about looking for trouble.”

Derek has always been so confrontational that his decision to react to this new world by building a wall had surprised everyone. He prefers to defend them that way, instead of going out to kill. Stiles has theorized that Derek has had enough violence in his life to last twenty lifetimes, so he’s not going to seek more of it, even against the dead. Derek seems content enough in his role.

“It’s not going to be the last time I ever ask him to do something he won’t like,” Scott says grimly. It’s not even the first. “He’s our best bet. He already knows what to do, and he’s got wolf strength to speed up the process.”

“What about the guy, Blake?”

“He’s the practical type,” Robert says dryly. Blake’s the kind of man that, when he encounters something that needs doing, he does it. No muss, no fuss.

“You and Frank should go through the gate,” Scott decides. “The job of that team will be to get you guys where you need to get. The fence team can be responsible for fixing the fence and clearing the property. Jordan and Cora should go with you. They’re good in the dark.”

No one mentions the Sheriff’s Station, but none of them need to. Jordan and Cora are a deadly combination, and they’ve only had time to increase their rapport.

“I’ll go with them,” Chris offers. “Allison too, maybe Bull. If we can get Allison up high enough, she’ll have clear shot to anything in range. Bull’s good at removing blocked doorways.”

“That leaves the twins, me, Isaac and you guys to back up Derek,” Scott says. Peter inclines his head in a nod. Five wolves and a Spark to watch Derek’s back should be plenty.

“I’ll go too,” Robert says, “You’ll need someone to drive. There’s no point leaving a vehicle behind if we don’t have to. The service road goes all the way around the property, we can get it back to the gate so everyone has transport back.”

“Sounds like we’ve got a plan.”

*

“You know,” Peter says as he watches Stiles toe off his shoes at the same time as he pulls his shirt over his head, “One of these days we’re going to need to talk about this.”

“About what?” Stiles asks. He very well knows what, but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to talk about it. Talking about it changes things. He shucks off his jeans and crawls under the blanket, tucking himself into Peter’s side.

Peter, for his part, heaves a sigh. He wraps his arm around the younger man, “We’ve been sharing a bed for months.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, he just fists his hand in the t-shirt Peter is wearing. Peter smoothes his hand down Stiles’ back when he hears his heartbeat quicken. Touch, for both of them, is a large factor in how they deal with the world now. They can handle nearly anything so long as they have this to come back to. The quiet silence and warmth and contentment of safety with each other.

“You’re my anchor,” Peter murmurs into the darkened room. He’s looking up at the ceiling, concentrating on the cracks and divots in the concrete so that he won’t focus on what Stiles may or may not decide to do.

After a while, when the silence begins to go from comforting to stifling, Stiles whispers, “You’re mine too.”

That’s the thing, isn’t it? They are each other’s anchors. Stiles is Peter’s reason to not lose himself to the wolf. Peter helps Stiles fight the siren call of the magic that courses through his being. Either one of them would murder for the other.

“Is that all we are?” Peter whispers.

“No. That’s not all we are.” Stiles whispers back.

*

“You okay?”

Allison lets Scott come up next to her, their shoulders brushing. His presence is comfortable, familiar. Even all these years after they broke up, there is still something between them. There always will be. Allison loves him, and she knows he loves her; but just like back in high school, she's not sure that’s enough.

“I never thought the world would end like this,” Allison remarks, “Hell, I never thought the world would end.”

Scott chuckles, “No matter how much we thought it was when we were in high school?”

Allison pokes him sharply in the ribs, making him yelp and flinch away. She smirks at him, then turns back to look out over the run down ruin of downtown Beacon Hills. From the roof of the warehouse she can see the charred husk of the shopping district. She knows the roofs of the buildings around them mask the devastation on the street.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Allison wonders.

Scott’s eyes are focused beyond State Street, toward the far off shadow of the hospital. “I hope so,” he tells her, a frown curling the corners of his mouth, “I think we can if we stick together.”

“Rebuild the world, huh?” She prods. She’s seen the plans in the central command hub of Stiles and Peter’s loft. Lydia may be fragile right now, but that doesn’t make her any less sharp than she ever was. Lydia is observant, and she had been in all the meetings. She’s also Allison’s best friend, and her source of information.

“We have to live, not just survive,” comes the definitive statement.

That has always been one of Allison’s favorite things about Scott; his unending optimism and ability to see the situation for what it  _ could  _ be, not what it is. Now, that quality is more useful than ever. It keeps the Alpha going, which causes him to drive the others forward.

“I think we can do that,” Allison says, “So long as we stick together.”

“It’s always worked for us in the past,” Scott replies, wrapping his arm around her.

Allison lets herself take comfort where it’s offered and leans her head on Scott’s shoulder. She follows his gaze to the hospital, but doesn’t say anything. His father is still there, one among many that remain upright and hungry. She also knows that they’re going to need to raid the hospital eventually. They’ll need at the medical supplies they can get. What they got out of Deaton’s clinic will only last so long. They could raid other doctor’s offices (and they probably will), but there are things only a hospital will have.

She resolves to be at Scott’s side when they go. He’ll need the support, because she knows that he’ll go to deal with it. To put Rafael McCall to rest once and for all. To not just bury his father, but to bury the ghosts that go with him.

“Think we can make the two groups work together?” Scott asks her after a few minutes. Allison has the unique advantage of being a part of the pack, but also of being part of the group that traveled across the country to get here.

“I think this will make all their doubts about coming here being the right idea vanish,” Allison reassures. “One experience of seeing you guys in action, of fighting alongside you, and they’ll know.”

“We could lose people.”

“A plan never survives first contact with the enemy,” Allison advises. “Trust us. Trust me and Dad enough to trust the others. Trust Derek and Danny and Stiles.”

“Always,” Scott presses a kiss to her head. “I’ll always trust you.”

*

“I don’t think I should go on the raid tomorrow.”

Scott looks up, eyebrows creasing in confusion. He glances over Aiden to make sure he’s still got all his limbs, “Why not?”

Aiden takes the question as an invitation to enter the room and close the door behind him. The grating slide echoes in the silence, but neither of the wolves flinch. Once it rattles into place, Aiden says, “It’s Lydia.”

Scott’s back straightens, “Is she okay?”

The smile the crosses Aiden’s face makes relief zip through the Alpha. The changes the end of the world have wrought on Lydia have been hard to watch. Mostly because there’s very little to nothing anyone can do about it. The wards are great and all, but they limit where Lydia can go, and they don’t prevent her from being able to feel the people she’s attached to. No one has been willing to speculate on what would happen if one of them died  _ inside  _ the wards.

Aiden slumps into a chair, nodding as he goes, “I think she’s getting a little better.”

“What do you mean by ‘you think’?”

Derek enters the room then, carrying a sledgehammer over one shoulder and a ferocious scowl on his face. He sometimes regrets letting his loft get turned into the armory. It means that there’s a lot of foot traffic in his space, and he’s enough of a loner to dislike it.

“What are you still doing here?” Derek demands gruffly. The entire Pack knows by now that the short-tempered Derek is just a front, and they’ve all gotten used to him trying to separate himself from them. He doesn’t want attachments, not after everything that’s happened over the years. The rest let him think he’s succeeding in some manner.

“Lydia,” Aiden says, then addresses Scott’s question, “I think I can block some of the effect the dead have on Lydia’s banshee side.”

Scott sits at the table, looking stunned. Derek lets the sledge hammer slide off his shoulder and collide with the concrete with a dull clang. “What?” Scott asks.

Aiden’s eyebrows crinkle, confused, “I talked with Stiles and Peter about it, and they think that because Lydia is so attached to me, and that I return that attachment, that somehow my wolf has decided to extend its  _ ‘mental protections’ _ to her.”

“Mental protections?” Scott wonders, baffled.

Derek snorts and leans the sledgehammer against the nearest counter before he comes to join them at the table. “All werewolves have a barrier around their minds. The stronger the mind the stronger the barrier.”

“But people have messed with our heads mystically before,” Scott says, trying not to think about some of the beings they’ve encountered.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Derek says flatly, “It makes us harder to crack and harder to control, but it’s not impossible. Like I said, the stronger the mind the stronger the barrier.”

“So, someone like Peter would be nearly impossible to mind control, but a newly turned wolf would be easier?”

“Essentially,” Derek agrees, “Stiles would be impossible to control that way too. After the Nogitsune, Deaton trained him to build shields around his mind; but there’s no telling the kind of defenses someone like Jordan would have. Or even the level of defense Lydia has, since her abilities are mental in nature.”

“Yeah well, I think I’d rather know what I am than have super strong brain defenses,” Aiden remarks. The entire pack has been unsettled over not knowing just  _ what  _ Jordan is, but not as much as the deputy is. Peter’s been researching it, but a vague knowledge of Jordan being fireproof isn’t much to go on.

“Have you ever heard of that before?” Aiden asks, “A wolf’s mental barrier protecting another mind?”

“No.” Derek contemplates the table top for a few minutes, eyebrows furrowed in thought. The other two wolves wait, patiently in Scott’s case, a little jittery in Aiden’s. “I think it might have something to do with you having been an Alpha.”

“But I’m not an Alpha.”

“You  _ were _ ,” Derek replies. “An Alpha’s job is to protect the pack and the territory, a wolf’s instinct is to protect the ones they care about. In most cases that means the pack as a whole, because the pack is your family. In some cases, when you haven’t got a true pack, that means the individuals you’re attached to at the time.”

“You met Lydia while you were still an Alpha,” Scott says, starting to cotton on to what Derek is trying to explain. “You started liking her before you gave up your Alpha powers.”

“Exactly, I’m not an Alpha anymore.”

“But you  _ were, _ ” Derek reiterates. “Being an Alpha changes you. Just because you don’t have the power to back it anymore doesn’t mean that your wolf doesn’t remember what it was like. Alphas are stronger than Betas, so naturally that means that their mental barriers would be stronger.”

“But strong enough to extend it to another person?”

“She’s your mate, isn’t she?”

Aiden blinks, the tips of his ears going red. He and Lydia haven’t been together in three years, but that doesn’t mean he stopped loving her. He’s a wolf, and wolves mate for life.

Scott stands up and claps him on the shoulder. “I say we just be grateful for small gifts. It’s not like there’s a Werewolves Guide for Dummies out there for us to follow. We do pretty great stumbling around in the dark. Mostly.”

Derek stands up, his job done, and retrieves his sledge hammer. “If everyone is done have a crisis,” he says, heading for the door, “I’m going back to work.”

The other two watch him go, waiting for him to get out of earshot (a fair distance for a wolf) before either of them say anything.

“Is it just me or has he gotten… weirder since the world ended?” Aiden asks carefully.

“It’s not just you,” Scott tells him. They’ve all changed, all the way down to their bones, but for some it’s more prominent. Derek is one of those. “So you want to stay behind?”

“Lydia took a walk outside yesterday,” Aiden tells his Alpha.

Scott stares, then says, “Yeah, okay. You and Ethan can stay. I kind of wanted a wolf here anyways.”

“Also, sending four wolves and Peter and Stiles is kind of overkill,” Aiden observes.

“Only a little.”

“When one of the wolves is the Alpha?”

“Okay, maybe a lot."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The raid on the power station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know shit all about how power stations work. Let's pretend I know what I'm doing.  
> Okay, so yes, I did some research, but I'm still making most of this stuff up.  
> Also, omg are there some crackpots on boards about this stuff. I really didn't need to see any of that, but it was like a train wreck, I couldn't look away.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Fourteen:_

 

One of the first things Robert did after they got to Beacon Hills and decided they were staying, was go out and find a replacement for the truck he’d destroyed out on the highway. This one is a big Ford in blue with four wheel drive and horns attached to the grill. They’re extremely tacky, and very ugly, but he leaves them there because they’ll make good stabbing weapons should he ever need to use the truck as a battering ram.

There are bets about how long this truck will last. He’s only destroyed three in the last four months, but apparently that makes way for a certain kind of car-destroying reputation.

It’s probably well deserved.

He’s leaning against the bed, watching Derek and Blake load the chain link and tools they’ll need to seal the breach in the power station’s fence and feeling glad that he’s not actually supposed to get out of the truck. While he can appreciate the abilities of the wolves, he’s not exactly sure where in the scheme of things that puts him.

“Dude, stop thinking about it,” a voice tells him, and he turns to see Stiles standing a few feet away with a bag over one shoulder and his eyebrows raised at him.

“Excuse me?”

“As a fellow squishy human surrounded by werewolves,” Stiles advises, “I suggest just accepting the weirdness and getting on with your day. It doesn’t help dwelling on it.” Stiles then proceeds to open the rear door and stick his bag on the back seat.

“Think of us as assets,” another voice says, making Robert flinch in surprise. Peter appears at Stiles’ elbow, handing off a pair of machetes and a shotgun to be stowed in the back seat. He turns brightly blue werewolf eyes on Robert. “Our being around increases your odds of survival.”

There’s something about Peter Hale that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something about the eyes and the set of his shoulders that screams predator and not to turn his back. Stiles just exudes a sense of danger, but it isn’t all the time. Peter just _is_ dangerous all the time.

It’s unsettling.

“Okay! Are we ready?” Scott’s voice calls over the movement of the people milling about in the parking lot. He claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Everyone clear on the plan?” A chorus of yeses answer him, and he smiles, “Awesome. Let’s get to it!”

Robert exchanges a look and a nod with Bull as they get into their respective vehicles. Bull climbs into the passenger seat of Chris’ army Jeep, and Robert climbs behind the wheel of the truck. This will be their first foray into combat against the dead with the wolves that Chris and Allison trust so much.

He’s a little relieved when it’s Scott that gets into the passenger seat next to him instead of Stiles or Peter. Derek and Blake are riding in the bed with with the gear, but the cab of the truck is full. Robert starts the engine and pulls around to follow Chris as they head out. A few minutes later and they all feel the zing as they cross the wards. The tension in the cab of the truck ratchets up as the danger they’re heading into increases.

Beyond the wards is like a different world. Here the street is still littered with cars. Bodies, walking and not, give weight to the way the world is now. It’s been four months since the world started ending, and two and a half since it imploded, and it’s still a shock to the system. Robert wonders briefly if the smell still gets to him sometimes, what must it be like for the wolves?

“Okay, so I want to do this quick and dirty,” Scott says. “Robert, you’ll drive through the breach, but turn the truck to block as much of it as you can so that Derek and Blake have room to work.”

That’s one of the problems, they don’t know how big the breach is. Hell, by now, it’s been long enough since they closely scouted the power station that there could be more than one breach. There are flaws in this plan, but it’s the best they’ve got. And they need to get the power running.

“Roger that,” Robert says, falling into the military vernacular that he spent most of his adult life speaking.

“Isaac, you and I will cover each end of the truck, block the way to the breach. Stiles, can you blast us a hole to the breach if we need it?”

“I can set whatever you want me to on fire, Yoda.”

“Right. Once we’re in, Stiles, you should set up wherever you’ve got the best vantage point for throwing fireballs or lightning or whatever. We’ll need you to thin out the herd.”

“Roof of the truck it is.”

“Peter? Just… Just watch Stiles’ back.”

No one says anything about the hesitation in Scott’s voice at that last remark. He’s gotten over most of their shared history, but he’s never forgotten just what Peter is capable of. He’s set it aside for Stiles, but he’s not the kind of guy to forget.

Robert’s hands tighten on the wheel at the tone in Scott’s voice.

No one remarks on that either.

*

“Our turn’s coming up,” Danny says from the back seat. He leans up between the seats and points at a street coming up. “It’s that one.”

“Got it,” Chris replies, and because they’re traveling at speed and Danny hadn’t given him much warning, the turn is abrupt and sharp. Danny oomphs as he’s forced into the side of the passenger seat. Allison grabs onto the back of the driver’s seat to prevent herself from being thrown into Frank’s lap.

In the very back of the jeep, Cora has no such luck. With nothing to grab onto, she is forced across the back and into Jordan. Jordan’s back presses painfully into the footlocker filled with gear he’d been leaning against.

“I didn’t know we were playing corners,” Jordan snarks. “If I’d have known I’d have brought a pillow.”

Cora pats his leg is sympathy, but remains in his lap, “Poor thing.”

He rolls his eyes and shifts the pair of them over so that the edge of the locker is no longer digging into the small of his back, “You think you’re cute, but really…”

“Shut up, I’m adorable.”

“Heads up, kids,” Bull says, interrupting the weird flirting going on in the back, “We’re here.”

The gate to the power station is chain link topped with razor wire which doesn’t do much except act as a deterrent for kids thinking about climbing it. There’s a small guard station by the gate that stands empty and dark. The gate itself is on a track, which will make moving it easier once they’ve cleared the lock.

“Bolt cutters?” Bull asks, peering through the windshield at the situation before them.

“Yeah,” Chris decides.“There’s a set in the locker in the back.”

There’s a thump and the clatter of metallic objects being moved about, then Cora’s voice says, “Found ‘em.”

Allison takes Danny’s place leaning between the seats, eyes examining the area. There’s a tall power pole just on the other side of the gate. It’s one of the bulky metal-framed ones, which will give her somewhere to perch. “I’ll climb that tower, it’ll give me an unobstructed view of the entire courtyard.”

It isn’t really a courtyard, more like a patch of gravel with room for parking cars and the door to the station itself. The station isn’t huge, just a squat building surrounded by relays and other power generating paraphernalia.

“Are we sure this place will run without the rest of the grid?” Chris asks, not for the first time.

Frank clears his throat. “It should. It’s the main station for the city. That’s the joy of being downtown. Also, it’s California. We’ve just gotta make sure the turbines are still spinning.”

“Turbines?”

“It’s a wind generated power station. The turbines are on an island just off the coast about an hour’s drive from here. It’s big enough to power more than Beacon Hills. So long as they’re still spinning and none of the hardware is damaged, the plant is still producing energy. This is the main substation that distributes the electricity to the city. It’s why we picked this one. I’ve just got to make sure we’re still getting power from the plant, and then turn things back on.”

“Wait, are you saying we’re going to have to go through the city turning off the lights?”

“No.” Frank shakes his head. “We’re only going to turn on power to the part of the grid that the compound is on. There’s no point powering the entire city.”

“How big is that?” Jordan wonders. “Because we’re still gonna have to turn lights off.”

“We’ve been turning things off as we’ve cleared buildings,” Danny informs them. “There should only be a few cursory things we missed.”

“Right on,” Cora chirps. “Let’s do this thing before Derek yells about how we were late.”

Somebody snorts, but no one comments on it. To the people that know him, Derek is just Derek. To those who don’t, he’s aloof and a little weird.

“It looks like there are only a few stragglers around the gate,” Chris says. “Jordan, Cora, you guys get the gate open, and close it behind us. Hopefully the other team will draw the rest to them.”

There are a few shambling zombies around the gate, and one or two can be seen inside the fence, but otherwise it’s quiet. Cora and Jordan exchange a look and a nod, and then they get out of the vehicle. Cora wolfs out and launches herself at the nearest zombie, taking it down with a snarl. It catches the attention of the other zombies, which is what she’d been aiming for. As they head for her, Jordan heads for the gate.

A minute later, Chris is driving the Humvee through the gate and it’s rattling closed behind them.

*

The breach in the fence is big enough to drive the truck through, but there’s only about twenty dead on the other side. Robert guns it forward, ramming two of them with the ugly horns attached to the grille. He spins the wheel and hits the brakes, and suddenly the truck is parked parallel to the breach, and people are spilling out of the cab.

Derek slides out of the bed of the truck and pulls the roll of fencing with him, hauling it up onto his shoulder as Blake follows with the tools they’ll need to fix it. Isaac flashes past with a machete and gleaming golden eyes as he clears their path to the fence. As they set in to rapidly repair the breach, Scott stations himself on the other side of the truck to keep the walkers off them.

From across the street, a few zombies begin to head in their direction. Drawn by the movement and loud noise. There’s a loud whistle, and suddenly the long grass on the curbside is ablaze with fire. It deters the zombies, and those it doesn’t come through on fire, making it easy for Scott and Isaac to stab them through the chain link.

Derek holds the new fencing in place as Blake rapidly uses thick wire to tie it into place. This part of the fence will always be weaker than the rest, but they can reinforce it later once the station is cleared.

On the other side of the truck, Peter snarls as he brings his own weapon to bear. Above him, on the roof of the vehicle, Stiles swings his bat in a downward arc, smashing in the skull of the zombie trying to get at Robert through the open window. His smile is vicious as he looks at the result of wrapping barbed wire around it.

The immediate vicinity clears within the first few minutes. Stiles slides down the roof of the truck and off the hood, joining Peter on the ground. He swings the rifle up into ready position and nods to Peter. “We’re going to clear the rest of the grounds!”

“Got it!” Scott calls back, not minding that they’re branching off on their own as they’re prone to doing, if only because the situation is well in hand. “We’ll meet you up by the front gate.”

“Yup!” Stiles calls, and then both he and Peter are headed across the lot, aiming for the few zombies they can see drifting between the power lines.

*

“Do you think we’ll ever not be on guard duty?”

Liam looks over at Mason, who is sitting listlessly on an overturned crate. They’re on guard duty at the church… _again._ It’s nice to know that they’re trusted enough to stand guard, but it stings that they’re not trusted enough to go on raids like the one at the power station that’s happening right this minute.

“Malia isn’t allowed to go out either,” Liam says instead of what he wants to, which is that no, not until they’re eighteen and adults… Whatever adult means now.

Mason snorts and spins the binoculars on their strap around his wrist, then has to dodge them when they go straight for his face. He huffs and sets them on the windowsill. “It’s a hundred degrees, and we’re stuck in a rickety tower that smells like burned wood and mold. I’d rather be stuck in the garden with Olsen.”

Liam can agree with that. Olsen Beardsley is a gardening dictator, and yet, somehow, being yelled at by the compound honorary grandpa would be better than this. “Stop thinking about it,” he advises, rising to stretch out his stiff muscles, “You’re only going to make it worse.”

Mason snorts, but subsides. The floorboards creak under Liam’s steps as he begins to pace around to work the stiffness out of his muscles. Outside there isn’t even a slight breeze to give relief to the high heat of July. There’s no sign of movement out on the highway except for a lone zombie wandering through the wreckage caused by the arrival of Chris and Allison.

Liam stops walking to stretch his arms over his head. The floorboards give a single warning creak, and then with an echoing snap, they give out under him. He yelps in surprise, and then he’s falling through the floor and down a story onto the burned out pews below.

Above him, Mason screams his name, fumbling for the radio as he peers through the hole at him. His voice sounds distant, Liam notes, and then the blackness swallows him.

*

Lydia screams, her wail echoing across the compound. It raises the hair on the necks of everyone who hears it and scares any who haven’t heard it before. They had been told what she was, but many of them have only been here a little over a week. There had been no opportunity or need to really consider what having a Banshee around meant.

Melissa closes her eyes at the sound, despair welling up inside her because she knows what that wail means. Someone they know, someone they consider family is in grave danger.

Finstock bursts into the infirmary just as the radio perched on a shelf crackles to life, Mason’s voice coming through; staticky by clear.

_“Help! We need help!”_

Melissa lunges for the radio, hitting the button, “Mason? What is it, what happened?”

_“He fell! The floor gave out and Liam fell! He’s not responding!”_

Finstock turns on his heel and bolts out of the room, yelling for someone to get the van. Melissa grabs the orange medical bag off the counter and follows, keeping the radio in one hand.

“Mason, I need you to calm down,” she says into the device, the calm of her nursing training and years of experience keeping her mind focused. “Can you reach him?”

_“I’m on my way down.”_

“Okay, I need you to make sure he’s breathing, that’s the first thing. I’m on my way.”

When she exits the warehouse, there’s chaos in the parking lot. Finstock has enlisted the help of the Brown cousins to unload everything out of the back of the van. A couple of people are demanding answers to the scream.

“You!” Melissa yells, pointing at a woman she vaguely remembers is named Jamie. “Go into the infirmary and get the backboard! Now!”

Jamie jerks, then spins to do as ordered as Ethan appears at Finstock’s elbow, growling “What do you need?” at him, eyes flashing electric blue.

“Get in,” Finstock orders. “We might need the heavy lifting. Mel, where are we going?”

“The church!” Melissa calls, rounding the van and opening the passenger door and throwing her bag in. “And fast.”

“Get in,” Finstock barks at the Browns, and then gets in the driver’s seat.

Melissa rolls down her window and leans out. “Jonah! Get Scott on the line as soon as you can. Let him know that Liam fell.”

“You got it!” Jonah calls back as Jamie reappears and hands the makeshift backboard to Nate Brown before he gets in the van. The doors slam closed behind him, and the van’s tires squeal as Finstock hits the gas.

*

“Well, that was bracing,” Stiles remarks, shouldering his bat. He breathes in deeply through his nose and turns to look at Peter.

Peter’s eyes are brightly blue, his mouth full of fangs as he watches Stiles. He’s very still, balanced on the balls of his feet, and Stiles gets the sudden feeling that he’s looking at the predator part of Peter’s wolf.

“You okay?” he asks, taking a slow step forward, careful not to step on the zombie he just finished killing. “Peter?”

The sound of his name seems to snap Peter out of whatever trance he’s in. The beta lunges forward, seizing Stiles’ head in his hands and sealing his lips over Stiles’. Stiles freezes for a split second, stunned at the suddenness of the kiss, and then his frame relaxes and he kisses back. Peter rumbles, pleased, and deepens the kiss.

When they pull apart, they’re both panting, and Stiles gazes at Peter with hooded eyes, “That was nice.”

“Mmm,” Peter replies, then rubs his cheek along Stiles’, scenting him thoroughly.

“What’s all this?” Stiles wonders. Peter’s reaction is a little weird, this isn’t the first time he’s ever seen Stiles kill a zombie. It’s not even the tenth.

“I love you,” Peter murmurs into the curve of Stiles neck.

“Excuse me?”

Peter pulls away just enough to meet Stiles’ surprised gaze, “I love you.”

A goofy smile crosses Stiles’ face. He can’t help it. He _knows_ Peter loves him, has done for a while now, but it’s nice to hear it all the same. “I love you too, you loon.”

Peter huffs, and then draws him into another kiss. It doesn’t last long, because Scott’s voice yelling interrupts them. The panic in the alpha’s voice is enough for them to draw apart instantly. Peter does one more quick sweep of the area, and then they’re both sprinting for the front of the property.

“What happened?” Stiles calls as soon as the others come into view.

“Liam’s been hurt,” Scott explains, even as he opens the door to the truck to climb in.

The hole in the fence has been repaired, and Derek and Blake both are sweaty and covered in dust. Isaac has a rapidly healing gash to the side of his head.

“You guys go,” Chris says, following after Scott. “Now that we’re secure, we don’t all need to be here. Bull and I will stay and wait for Danny and Frank to finish their work.”

Scott nods. “Thanks.”

That seems to be the cue everyone was looking forward to because there’s a flurry of movement. Cora leaps into the bed of the truck next to her brother, pulling Jordan up behind her. The rest of them climb into the truck as Robert starts the engine.

The radio crackles as Scott speaks into it, “What’s the situation Jonah?”

Jonah’s voice comes over the radio as the truck pulls through the gate and Bull pulls it closed behind them: _“They just got to the church. Melissa is evaluating him now. I suggest you come home instead of going there. That many bodies will just get in the way.”_

“Got it, keep me posted,” Scott says. Once again, he finds himself hating that the walkie talkies they got out of the station only had a range of about twenty miles on them. They were just too far away from the church to be able to get any of the information first hand.

 _“Will do,”_ Jonah tells him.

Robert lays his foot down on the gas as soon as the truck hits pavement.

*

“Mason?”

“In here!”

Melissa follows the voice, Ethan right behind her, the Brown boys following with the board she turned into a makeshift backboard when Deaton was bitten. It had been sitting in the corner of the infirmary, feeling slightly accusatory ever since. Now she’s grateful to have it as they reach the spot where Mason is standing, a look of ill-concealed panic on his face.

Liam is lying unconscious in a sprawl across two pews. They’d been damaged by the fire enough to collapse under his weight. Splintered wood lies all around him, creating a hazard that blocks access. Melissa swallows. The boy is covered in cuts, and one leg is at an unnatural angle.

“Okay,” she says, taking both herself and the situation in hand. “Let’s see if we can shift some of the bigger pieces so we can get him out of here.”

The boys all set to work, and Melissa steps carefully into the destruction until she reaches Liam and kneels down next to him. Up close it’s easier to hear the rattle of his breath. She quickly checks head and neck, then for penetrating wounds, then she braces his leg, doing her best to make sure he’s stable enough to move.

She suddenly wishes she was a doctor.

Ethan kneels at Liam’s head, Don Brown at his feet with the board.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” Melissa explains. “Ethan, I want you to put your hands here and here, your job is to hold his head and neck steady, just in case. Nate, you come around here, as soon as we lift, you slide the board underneath him. Don, you lift his legs, be careful of the broken one.”

There is a shuffle of movement as they get into position. Melissa slides her arms under Liam’s torso carefully, “On my count. One. Two. Three.”

They lift.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Liam, and a couple of idiots make Robert's night go very poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made a note to myself about how annoying it is to try and keep track of a cast this big. Which is massively true.
> 
> I had a question about how long it's been since chapter one. It's been just over 4 1/2 months, not quite 5 months.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Fifteen: _

 

The difficulty at the end of the world means that, not only are there no surgeons to correct the damage, they don’t have the equipment they would need even if they had a doctor. Melissa gazes sadly at the boy on the infirmary bed. She’s done everything she can, which is not inconsiderable, but it’s still not enough.

The wheezing rattle as he breathes is a clear indication of a punctured lung, something Melissa can’t fix, so his lungs just continue to slowly fill with fluid.

“Mom?”

Melissa leans gratefully into her son for a moment, then turns to look at him. Stiles is at his shoulder, like always; and Finstock, Mason, and Malia linger in the doorway, watching Liam sadly.

“He’s sedated,” Melissa tells them softly. “There’s nothing left to do.”

Mason pales under the words, his already trembling body losing the ability to hold itself up. Finstock catches him and lowers him into a chair, face grim. He has taken in these kids, cared for them, helped them figure out this new world they’re living in. These are  _ his kids  _ now; and one of them is lying in a bed, dying.

“Nothing?” Finstock confirms, voice much quieter than his usual.

“He’s sedated,” Melissa says, “To help with the pain. Unfortunately, I’m not a surgeon.”

“Scott,” Stiles says softly, a tone to his voice that tells Scott he’s just thought of something and Scott probably won’t like whatever it is. “Scott, you should bite him.”

And, nope, he doesn’t like it. Scott stares from his best friend to the kid laying unconscious on the bed. “As in Bite him, bite him?”

Stiles nods. He’s looking at Liam, brow crinkled in thought, “He’s already dying, the Bite could save him.”

“Stiles, I’ve never Bitten anyone before,” Scott says, frowning. “It could kill him.”

“He’s already dead,” Stiles says. “The Bite could save him.”

“Would he even want that?” The question is aimed at the three people clustered by the bed. At the family Liam’s helped create since the end of the world. “To be a wolf, I mean. Would he rather that than being dead?”

Finstock scowls, looking down at Liam, “He wants to live. Kid might have anger issues, but he wants to live.”

Mason nods. “He’d say yes. We talked about it once, after we found out about you guys.”

Scott inhales, holds it for a five count, and then exhales, looking to his mother. Melissa smiles at him gently, sad but still comforting. “It’s worth a shot,” she tells him.

Scott walks over to the bed, Stiles squeezing his shoulder when he passes him. Liam is pale and small-looking. Quiet and still, swathed in bandages and blankets, he looks so young, but he’s only a few months younger than Scott was when he was Bitten.

“Do you think it matters where?”

“Not really,” Stiles offers. He’d talked about it at length with Peter one night when he couldn’t sleep after his father died. “Just avoid any major arteries.”

“Right.” Scott breathes in deeply again. When he exhales, his eyes bleed to the bright ruby of the Alpha and his fangs drop. Carefully he lifts Liam’s arm. After a few seconds of hesitation, he Bites.

*

“We have to raid the hospital. I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but you Biting someone can’t be the only solution. We need supplies, and we need to have more than death or the Bite as options.” Lydia’s voice and gaze are matter of fact. She’s feeling helpless again, and that’s never been a feeling she’s liked.

“The hospital is crawling with corpses,” Derek says flatly.

“So take the entire pack,” Lydia retorts. “I know I’m basically useless outside the wards, but last time I counted we had seven wolves, a spark, two hunters and whatever the hell Jordan is. Also, it’s the end of the world, don’t count out the puny humans.”

Derek bares his wolf teeth at her in a facsimile of a smile, and she smiles her beauty pageant winner smile at him back.

“As the  _ ‘whatever the hell he is’ _ ,” Jordan remarks dryly, “I think we can handle the hospital if we do it right.”

Robert and Bull exchange a look from where they’re standing at the back of the room. The entire Beacon Hills Pack is present, and neither man has felt more like an outsider. They’ve been here nearly three weeks, and it’s never been more clear that, while everyone is trying, there’s still a clear divide between the people who have just arrived and the ones who have been here.

“Floor by floor,” Olsen Beardsley says. The older man is frowning thoughtfully, his youngest grandchild asleep on his chest. “Sealing everything behind you. Clear the entire hospital. That way you’ve got the run of the place and can take your time going room to room for supplies. Strip the entire hospital bare of everything you can get your hands on.”

“What, you’re not coming?” Aiden snarks, a nasty grin on his face that all of them know is fake.

Olsen rolls his eyes, “I’m the Pack Elder. I’m too old for shit like this. No, I’m gonna stay here with the babies.”

“I’ll stay too,” Lisa says. “Lydia shouldn’t have to put up with Dad all by herself. We all know as soon as he got on her nerves she’d bury him out back under the compost heap.”

A chuckle ripples through the room when Lydia smiles sharply and Olsen shrugs.

Scott looks around at his family, seeing determined faces looking back at him. Malia looks absolutely ferocious where she sits with Mason sandwiched between herself and the man they’ve been talking about calling Dad. Finstock stares back at him with that blank, do what I tell you to, Coach look on his face that Scott remembers from High School.

“Peter?” he asks. There’s a reason why Peter is Pack Loremaster, and it’s not just because he’s got the library for it. Peter is brutal and violent, but he’s smart, with a mind for strategy and loyalty solidly set on Stiles, whose loyalty is to the the Pack.

“We can handle it,” Peter answers, “Floor by floor like Olsen said. Teams of four, any more than that and there won’t be room to maneuver, any less and there won’t be enough eyes for the amount of zombies we’re likely to encounter. We have to remember that we still don’t know what a wolf being bitten would do.”

Scott nods, glancing at Derek for confirmation, who nods. Derek may have been a shitty Alpha, but he’s grown a lot since then, and makes a good advisor. He’ll never be trusted to train new wolves, because his temper is too short, but he’s like Peter; he’s got a lifetime of experience behind him.

“Right. So, Jordan, Chris, Olsen and Peter, you guys start setting a strategy for the raid. Danny, if you can see if you can find blueprints for the building? Maybe Mom can at least help with a floor plan.” Scott pauses, then says seriously, “I’m not going anywhere until Liam’s out of the woods. Preferably not until after he’s got a basic handle on the wolf.”

Control is not a thing any wolf has at first, born or bitten. Scott had been lucky, he’d had Stiles shoving werewolf facts down his throat, and then chaining him up when that didn’t work. Isaac had had Derek, who had been brutal, but effective. Cora, Peter and Derek were all born wolves, who had been taught control over a lifetime. The twins had had to relearn a few things after the Alpha Pack.

“A week, probably two,” Ethan postulates. “With all of us going, Liam will be the only wolf here, so we should be sure he’s got a grip before we go.”

“Not to mention, full moon’s in a week and a half,” Aiden adds, “He shouldn’t be left alone on or around that. Not so soon after the Bite.”

“That’s a good amount of time to properly plan,” Chris decides, “It’ll give Danny time to work on the floor plan.”

“I’ll need it,” Danny says, “It’s not like I can just hit up the city planning office.” Which is true, seeing as City Hall was overrun last time any of them looked at the map.

“Right,” Scott says, “Right.”

*

“Do you think we’ll ever be considered pack to them?” Bull wonders as he and Robert exit the lofts and head for the warehouse whose ground floor is serving as a dining hall.

“I’m not sure,” Robert replies, “I think the last four and a half months have forged them into something, and they’ve forged us into something else.”

It’s not easy to forget that they’ve had completely different experiences from the people who have taken them in. Twenty people on the road for that long, fighting death at every moment brings them close together. Robert’s sure that life here hadn’t been easy, but the pack had an advantage that the Chicago group hadn’t, most of them had known each other before the world ended.

“Chris and Allison will fight for us,” Robert pulls open the door. Most of their people are arrayed around the room. It’s become both dining hall and socialization room. There’s even a ping pong table in one corner that the Watchdogs had found early on in a nearby building.

Don, Nate and Steve Brown are cousins who spend the vast majority of their time on watch. Currently they’re feeding Butterscotch (and hadn’t that been a shock, a pet in the apocalypse) bits of their dinner.

“It’s going to take more than just a couple of weeks for them to really feel like we belong,” Robert concludes as he sits, and then he scruffs the dog’s ears when the pit mix comes to investigate the guy that smells like his people.

“So what’s the word, boss?” Steve asks as Marigold brings them plates, and the rest of them gather around.

“Wait and see,” Robert tells them. “They’re planning a raid on the hospital for supplies, but that’s in a few weeks. We’re waiting on the boy.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Marigold wonders worriedly. Her older son, Daniel is the same age as Liam and Mason. Her eyes go to the corner where the five kids in their group are playing a board game.

“Like I said, wait and see. Apparently the Bite isn’t a guarantee, it’s a fifty-fifty shot it’ll take.”

“Poor kid,” Oscar grunts.

There’s a long pause, and both Bull and Robert take the opportunity to dig into their dinners. The door opens, and members of the pack start filing into the room, seeking their own dinners. Butterscotch barks excitedly, bounding across the room to weave around people with whining greetings and a madly wagging tail. His presence brightens the dour group.

Hellos and well wishes are exchanged. People wander back to what they were doing before they were interrupted. Isaac appears, plate in hand, dropping it onto the table across from Bull with a faint smile in greeting. He looks tired. A few of the others join him.

“Sorry about not including you guys earlier,” Danny tells them. “We’re still not used to having other people around.”

“We get it,” Bull tells him. “It’s instinct. One of your own is hurt, circle the wagons. We’d do the same.”

Danny chuckles because, yeah, he knows that. Ethan appears with plates for them right as Oscar says, “Hey, has anyone seen Jeremiah or the Coles?”

*

It takes too long to figure out that the three missing twenty-somethings aren’t in the compound. By the time the entire area enclosed by the wards is searched, the sun is sinking low on the horizon, filling everyone with dread.

“Where the hell could they have gone?” Bull demands angrily as he slams into the dining hall.

“We can’t leave them out there,” Allison says, ignoring Bull’s bluster because she’s used to it. The former linebacker scares her about as much as a fluffy bunny.

It isn’t a good idea to leave the wards after dark. The dead are more active at night. They’re also harder to see, so being taken by surprise and being bitten is a bigger risk. They’ve been trying to keep the area around the compound relatively clear, but that effort only extends about two miles out. There’s no telling how far the three got before it got dark.

“There aren’t any vehicles missing, so they’re on foot.”

“Everyone takes a car, four teams, three people per team,” Chris orders, walking into the dining hall. He’s armed and carrying Allison’s bow. “Each team should have a wolf on it, they’ve got better night vision.”

“We’ll go,” Isaac says.

Beside him Cora nods, elbowing Jordan at her side. “Parrish can drive, the SUV has the big floodlights on it.”

“I’ll go too,” Derek says, though his eyebrows and frown say he doesn’t really want to. The pack pays it no mind, the rest will learn to recognize that resting grumpy cat face is Derek’s default expression.

“Sounds like a party,” Ethan says. “I’m in.”

“Right, everyone else, sort yourselves out, let’s go,” Chris orders and then leads the way out of the warehouse.

*

“Wait, stop!”

Robert slams on the brakes, turning to look at Derek who is peering out the window into the dark. It’s been an hour since they left, and it’s full dark now. Behind them, the lights of the compound (now powered by the power station taken earlier in the day) is a bright beacon in the dark city.

“What is it?” Oscar asks from the back seat.

“I think I saw something,” Derek says. “Back up.”

Robert throws the car into reverse and backs it up so that they can all peer down the side street between a dentist’s office and a baby boutique. In the back of his mind, Robert makes note of the location of the dentist. It might not be a standard doctor’s office, but useful supplies can still be found there.

They wait for a minute, peering into the dark beyond the car, and just when Robert is ready to put the car into drive and move on, they see it. A glinting in the dark. Robert backs the car up and turns it into the side street. The beams from the headlights fall on a horrifying sight.

There are freshly killed zombies littering the ground. Jeremiah is slumped against the wall, covered in blood and holding his stomach as he screams. Across the way from him, Riley and Mariah Cole are struggling to get a door leading into the building closed.

Derek is out of the car in a flash, darting across the road and slamming shoulder-first into the door. Mariah screams, but continues to hack at the reaching limbs with her knife. Her brother grunts, shoving more of his weight into the door. Oscar joins them, helping Mariah clear the gap of body parts so that they can slam it closed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Oscar demands as soon as the door is secure.

Mariah is crying, ugly sobs that prevent her from talking. She watches Robert whisper to Jeremiah softly as he assesses his wounds.

“What happened?” Derek growls, hauling Riley to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

“We didn’t see them,” Riley gasps. “Jeremiah opened the door, and they were on him before we could do anything. We’ve been trying to get away for hours.”

Robert trades places with Oscar, eyes furious. He grabs Riley by his shirt and slams him against the door they’d just managed to close. “What were you thinking? Leaving the wards without telling anyone? Being out here at sunset?”

“It was my idea,” Mariah gasps out, her sobs turning into hiccups. “I wanted to explore.”

“She was gonna go by herself,” Riley says. “I couldn’t let her. She’s my sister.”

“And let me guess, Jeremiah caught you as you were heading out?”

Two sets of eyes turn to the ground in shame.

Oscar stands abruptly, face grim. “He’s gone.” Mariah’s sobs start up again at the announcement. “Derek, would you help me get in him in the truck?”

Derek nods, stepping up next to the fallen boy. He grunts as he lifts, taking the majority of the weight, as Oscar takes up Jeremiah’s legs and heads for the truck.

“We didn’t mean for this to happen,” Riley whispers.

Robert doesn’t get a chance to respond, there’s a snapping sound, and the door handle gives. Mariah screams, but it’s too late, the horde of zombies spilling into the alley already have her. Robert grabs for his sidearm, firing into the crowd as Riley lunges for his sister. Derek reappears with a roar, putting physical strength into the fight to get her away from them.

“Move!” Oscar yells, “Now!”

The retreat to the truck is static and fast. Oscar fires his shotgun over their heads. Derek throws Mariah over his shoulder and leads the way to the truck. Robert backs up to the drivers side, firing into the zombies bearing down on them. That’s when it happens. Robert trips, his ankle gives, and he falls.

“Robert!” Oscar yells.

Derek gives Mariah to Riley, who finishes hauling her into the truck. The beta grabs a machete and turns, leaping the distance between the truck and where Robert fell. He’s still going, having replaced the magazine in his gun and continuing to fire. It hasn’t stopped a zombie from getting at his leg. It’s vague problem-solving hindbrain recognizing that immobilizing its prey is a good idea.

Robert howls as the cinderblock it picks up crushes his leg repeatedly.

Derek reaches him just before the first one can take a bite out of the man. He quickly sets to work with blade and claws, completely wolfed out and snarling. Robert shoots the zombie with the cinderblock in the face, getting out from under it. He lets Derek sling him up onto his shoulder, even as the ex-marine continues to fire.

Oscar covers them with a few more blasts from the shotgun before they’re all in the truck.

“Get us back home,” Derek snarls. “Now!”

Oscar hits the gas, backing them back out to the main street, swinging them around and then throws it into drive and hits the gas. In the back of the truck, Derek whips off his belt and wraps it around Robert’s thigh, using it as a tourniquet around his mangled leg.

Next to the pair, Mariah is still sobbing, clutching her arm.

“Mari, what is it?” Riley asks, worried.

She looks up at him with big eyes, and then shows him the bite on her arm.

*

As soon  as they get back, Mariah is put into isolation in the infirmary. Melissa grimly takes the rest of them into hand. Riley is cleared of injury, and he posts himself outside of the isolation room, determined to stick it out with his sister. Jeremiah is transported into the room they set aside as a small morgue. Robert, on the other hand, isn’t as easy to deal with.

“Give it to me straight,” Robert finally snaps. The quiet or Melissa’s careful non-answers getting to him, maybe both.

She looks up at him seriously. “The bone is crushed. There isn’t enough here to reset the leg. You’ve got two options, clean it out and pray you heal in some way without getting an infection, which is unlikely. Or we cut it off, which would increase your chances of survival, but would still leave you vulnerable to infection.”

“No way are you cutting off my leg,” Robert retorts. He avoids her gaze for a long minute as he thinks, gaze swinging from person to person. His gaze lands on Scott, who is sitting by Liam’s bed, watching.

“No,” Scott says, “No way.”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling,” Robert replies. “You Bite me, and I keep my leg, right?”

“It doesn’t work that way!” Scott yelps.

“Would being a werewolf heal my leg?” Robert demands, eyes fierce.

“Yes,” Derek says in that flat way of his. “ _ If  _ the Bite takes. It could just as easily kill you as save you.”

“I’m dead anyway,” Robert says. “Sooner or later I’ll be too slow with a bum leg and a walker’s going to take a chunk out of me.”

“Don’t think like that,” Marigold pleads from the back of the room where she’s standing with Oscar.

“I’m a Marine,” Robert tells Scott, holding his gaze. He thrusts his arm out, “I’m nothing if I can’t fight. I want you to Bite me.”

Silence reigns for a few minutes while Scott and Robert stare at each other. Eventually Scott stands up and walks over to Robert, taking his proffered arm into his hands. His eyes bleed red and his fangs drop. “By doing this your world is going to change. You’re getting yourself into a whole lot of stuff you don’t understand. You do this and you’re Pack.”

Robert can read the seriousness in his eyes, the tension in every line of the younger man’s body. “I’m sure,” he says calmly. His ability to fight and defend are all he’s had for most of his life. He can’t lose it now. “Do it.”

Scott tilts his head, and Derek and Peter appear on either side of the bed, their hands coming out to pin him down. “This is going to hurt like hell,” Scott warns, and then lowers his head and  _ Bites. _

*

Standing outside the infirmary, listening to Robert howl in pain, Stiles and Lydia exchange a telling look between them. 

“We really need to raid the damn hospital,” Stiles decides.

“No shit,” Lydia replies.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After much time and need, the raid on the hospital finally begins.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Sixteen: _

 

The week and a half leading up to the raid on the hospital is filled with planning and, for Liam and Robert, training. Scott runs them ragged, drags them up and back, lectures them. He sends them to Peter for werewolf history and meditation. To Derek for physical control and (his patience might be limited, but he’s good at driving the lesson home) some combat training. Stiles gets them for what he did for Scott: control of the shift and figuring out their anchors.

Meanwhile, the planning for the raid continues apace. Bull puts up protest that the Chicago group isn’t being included, so Finstock cedes his place on one of the teams to him. The rest of the group that came with Allison and Chris have found themselves jobs that don’t include combat, for the most part, and are content to not go.

Danny and Melissa manage to put together a workable basic floor plan of the hospital. It helps to know the locations of the maps on each floor for them to use once they arrive and the immediate urgency to handle with the dead roaming the halls is dealt with. She’ll be going with them, despite being their only medical person, because she knows where all the supplies they want will be located.

Four teams, one for each floor of the hospital. Four vehicles for transport. By the time the full moon has come and gone, they’re as prepared as they can be. When dawn comes two days after the moon, it finds the pack loading supplies into the cars. Several of them are still scarfing down their quick breakfast.

“You be careful,” Lisa tells Mark, voicing the thought of most of those staying behind. For the Chicago group, this is the first real raid they’ve seen the pack mount. For the pack, it’s the first time they’ve really had people to leave behind.

Stiles exchanges a handshake with Scott, the one they’d made up as kids and is still ridiculous, but both of them think is cool. He and Peter have been given responsibility of Malia, who is perfectly capable, but Finstock has just nearly lost one of his kids and he hadn’t wanted her to go. Malia, however, knows herself and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Their fourth team member is Chris. They’re a good mix of ranged and close combat. They’ll cover the third and fourth floors.

Scott, for his part, is chock-full of manic energy. He knows that as soon as he steps foot in the hospital, the only thing he’ll be able to think about is the fact that his father is in there. His father, who sacrificed himself to save Scott and Melissa, who was bitten and is probably stumbling around in the east stairwell. Scott is going to kill his father because he knows that would be what Rafael McCall would want, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier.

A long time ago, Stiles had resented the friendship between Scott and Isaac. He’d felt that Isaac was pushing him out of the best friend slot and that he would be left behind. Now he’s grateful for it. Isaac is a good Second; he’s also got the patience of a saint. Where Stiles would snark and bluster his way into making Scott  _ do _ something, Isaac has enough subtlety about him to gently nudge and temper Scott’s idealistic ways. This is why Isaac will be with Scott when he goes to kill his father.

Allison is an expert marksman, and she makes a great bodyguard, so she and Melissa make up the rest of Scott’s team. They’ve been assigned the second floor and the emergency stairwell.

Derek, the twins, and Mark have been assigned the ground floor. Derek and the twins make up a good brute assault force. Their tactics are good for going against large groups, especially once the twins have done their fusion dance. Mark is their marksman, set to watch their backs once they’re inside. They expect the ground floor to be the most crowded. It houses the ER, and that’s where people were going when they got sick or bitten.

Jordan and Cora have proven themselves in past months to be good in the dark. No one’s ventured a guess as to just what they’ve become to each other, but they know that they’re a good team. Jordan trusts Cora to guide his footsteps when he can’t see. Cora trusts Jordan to watch her back, a hard task since her family was murdered. They might not know what Jordan is, but that doesn’t affect the fact that he did two tours with the army before joining the Sheriff’s Department; he’s combat capable and ready. They’ve been assigned the basement and the morgue.

To be perfectly honest, Finstick is happy to cede his slot on their team to Bull when he finds out that they’re going underground where their escape routes include a single stairwell and an elevator shaft. Danny rolls his eyes at the man when he mentions it and calls him a wuss.

Once the cars have been loaded, they exit the compound with the rising of the sun. As soon as they cross the wards, the wall looms in the distance. The progress Derek’s team has made is enormous. It now encompasses more than a quarter of the route intended, stretching for several miles beyond what can be seen between the buildings.

It’s an impressive sight.

The streets are quite. Gray light makes the wandering zombies look almost normal. The engines are the only noise. The vehicles cause the dead to turn toward the noise and shuffle after them as they go.

The hospital itself stands apart from the buildings around it. Across the road is a shopping center with a Walmart and a Home Depot. Nearby is a medical plaza filled with doctor’s offices for general practitioners. Kitty corner is a gas station and grocery store, whose parking lot was taken over by the National Guard when they’d moved in.

There are cars in the parking lot of the hospital, but only a few zombies. At first. When the convoy rounds the corner and the main entrance of the hospital comes into view, the number of zombies increases. They’re congregated around the main doors, one of which is shattered, the other is stuck in the open position from when the power cut out.

Here, the the vehicles stop. All but Derek’s SUV, which continues around the next corner to the ambulance bay. Their first call of business is to clear the bay and get the doors closed so that no more dead can get in that way. The other three cars stop. Stiles’ jeep, the vet clinic van and Jordan’s police SUV line up about fifty yards from the entrance.

Far enough away to only draw the attention of a few outliers, but close enough that getting back to them won’t be a hardship should the initial foray go badly .

“We ready?” Scott asks once they’ve gotten out of the cars. He gets a series of tight nods at the question.

Allison is  nearby, up a tree and her sights are already set on her first target. Danny is up on the roof of the van in a similar state.

“Let’s do this,” Scott says, takes in a deep breath, and wolfs out.

Stiles takes that as his cue to launch a bolt of what looks like lightning into the horde of zombies. It’s enough electricity to kill nearly anything, and it arcs from zombie to zombie as it dissipates. Many of them take enough volts to catch fire, the two or three that catch the full brunt of the blast are reduced to unrecognizable slag.

“Well, that caught their attention,” Isaac says and follows his Alpha into the fray.

*

Derek doesn’t like the look of the ambulance bay. There are three ambulances. Two are parked against the wall and aren’t a problem. No, the problem is the one parked with its rear doors backed right up to the doors. There aren’t many zombies in view, but that ambulance makes the area a choke point.

“Think the keys are still in it?” Mark asks, peering through the windshield at the sight.

“If it’s not, we’ll get to see the twins’ party trick a lot earlier than expected,” Derek remarks, and can’t help the quirk of a smile that emerges when Mark flinches.Derek’s seen the twins merge before. It’s probably the most disturbing thing he’s ever seen, and he’s seen people being eaten alive.

“Not the heaviest thing we’ve ever moved,” Ethan says with a smirk.

“Check for keys first,” Derek says to Mark. “Get that thing out of the way and we’ll worry about keeping the doors clear.

“You got it,” Mark replies.

The four of them have been working on the wall together often enough that they know each other pretty well. Mark knows what the twins and Derek are capable of, and he trusts them. They’ll keep the dead off of him long enough for him to get into the ambulance.

“Better make sure there’s nothing in the rig before you try driving it anywhere,” Aiden advises, and then gets out of the vehicle.

Mark hangs back a little as the wolves advance. They’re all armed with guns, but the noise of firing them would just draw more to them, so the order of the day is close combat, bladed weapons and claws. The twins are armed with a long knife each, Derek’s got a machete and Mark’s wielding a short sword that had been some collector’s idea of wall art. The craftsmanship had been determined good enough that the steel has been honed and sharpened, making the blade live.

Derek and Aiden round to each side of the ambulance, taking out the zombies in their way. Ethan goes for the few that are just wandering the ambulance bay, clearing their backs. Mark goes for the ambulance itself. As soon as he reaches the driver’s side door, he yanks it open, aiming his gun into the interior. When nothing lunges for him right away, he climbs up onto the running board and puts head and torso into the cab, swinging his gun around to the rear of the vehicle.

And fires instantly when a walker in an EMT’s uniform lunges out of the rear at him. It goes down like a puppet with its strings cut. There’s a single zombie strapped to the gurney inside the ambulance. The noise and movement cause it to strain to free itself, snarling and gnashing its teeth. Mark climbs into the rear of the vehicle, kicking the corpse of the zombie he just downed out of his way.

He trades his sidearm for his knife and plunges it into the skull of the trapped zombie. It stills, and Mark becomes aware of the noise outside the ambulance. The rear doors stand open, and Derek is combating several zombies in front of them, his movements hindered because of the close quarters. A thud against the side of the vehicle tells Mark all he needs to know about where Aiden is.

He climbs back into the driver’s seat, sitting properly, and turns the key that is thankfully still in the ignition. The ambulance roars to life, the lights on the top flashing. Mark hits the switch to turn the lights off at the same time as he hits the gas. The ambulance leaps forward with an abrupt jerk, and Mark straightens the wheel and then pulls it to the left so that the vehicle swings around to park next to the other two ambulances. He shifts gears into park and kills the engine.

Derek uses the new space to his advantage. He takes two steps back and widens his stance. The twins come up on either side of him, Mark at the rear, and together they clear the doorway and advance inside. The congregation of dead thins to a trickle as they make it into the triage area of the ER, but it remains steady.

They ignore the piles of corpses stacked up against the walls and the fact that the waiting area has been rearranged as a triage area with several beds. They’ve got a job to do. There’s no time to grieve over the devastation of what was once a place of healing.

They keep moving.

*

Once the main doors are clear, a few minutes are taken to clear the bodies so that the van can be backed up to the doors. Since one is shattered and the other is jammed half-open, they can’t close and lock them. The van makes a good temporary solution. It prevents more of the dead from getting inside, and it also helps to provide for a quick exit should things go south. 

The group clears enough of the lobby to make it to the main stairwell. It’s considered the main stairwell, if only because it lets out off of the lobby rather than the east stairwell, which lets out onto the rear parking lot. Jordan and Cora take the lead when they breach the door. They’ve done it before, in the pitch dark, which is what they’ll probably find on the other side.

The first zombie that lurches out of the darkness of the stairwell is quickly felled by a swing of Jordan’s fire axe, the second is taken out high by Cora’s machete. Then they enter the stairwell, one after the other. The pair quickly clear the landing as the others work their way into the stairwell, pulling bodies out of the way.

The noise generates the attention of the zombies crowding the stairwell. When the evacuation order had been given, both stairwells had been flooded. Jordan leans out over the railing and points his flashlight upward, revealing at least fifty zombies crowding the stairs, all of them working their way down the steps toward the noise.

“Not a lot of space,” Bull remarks. He eyes the stairs that go downward, toward the basement. “We should probably clear down there first, so we don’t get any nasty surprises.”

“I’ll go with you,” Danny says.

The stairwell is tight quarters, the stairs themselves being barely wide enough for two of them side by side. The railing helps prevent falling, but it’s not going to stop the hazard entirely, especially with these numbers coming down on them. They have no choice but to take turns as they progress upward.

Cora takes the first zombie that reaches them with a snarl, grappling it to one side and pinning it so that Jordan can get it in the head. The second goes to Scott and Isaac. The pattern continues as they slowly progress to the second floor landing. It takes long enough to clear the landing that Bull and Danny rejoin them, having taken care of the few zombies that had made their way down past the ground floor. Bull starts heaving the dead zombies over the railing, letting them fall down to the bottom of the stairwell and out of the path of living persons.

The zombies coming at them slow to a trickle once they clear the second floor landing, so it’s decided that this is where the three groups will go their separate ways. Stiles, Peter, Chris and Malia continue up the stairs. Jordan, Cora, Bull and Danny turn back to head to the bottom. Isaac braces himself, prepared to wrench the door open. Scott, Melissa and Allison ready themselves, and at a nod from Scott, Isaac yanks the door open, quickly ducking out of the way.

*

“I thought the hospital was evacuated,” Mark comments as he stares around the cleared ER. “Isn’t that one of the first things they do?”

“They did evacuate,” Derek says darkly, dragging a corpse out of the way, to the pile they started in the waiting area. “The patients. Most of these guys probably showed up after being bitten under their own power. The Guard wouldn’t have cared about the walking wounded.”

“It looks like they had a hard time containing it,” Aiden remarks.

It’s no surprise really. In the beginning, people had been encouraged to go to the hospital if they were showing any symptoms of the illness. The number of people who began turning and attacking other people would have been enormous. Hospital staff and the National Guard would have been unable to prevent the hospital from being overrun.

“The lobby should be mostly clear,” Derek says, changing the subject. “Let’s finish the job.”

*

They hadn’t expected much movement in their initial sweep of the basement. They don’t encounter much on their way to the morgue, just identical hallways and locked utility rooms. The main goal had been the morgue anyway.

There’s no telling what they’ll actually find when they get there.

Jordan crouches down by the door to the morgue hallway, smoothing out the hand drawn map Danny hands him. Bull shines his flashlight on the paper so that Jordan has a hand free. 

“Okay.” Jordan traces a finger down the hallway. “According to this there are two offices and a supply closet on this side of the hallway. The elevator is down here at the end, so we don’t need to worry about anything coming at us from here.”

“We should clear the offices first,” Mark says, voice hushed. “The main room on the other side is going to be the problem.”

Cora looks briefly over her shoulder to exchange a grim look with Jordan. They’re not sure what to expect when they get into the morgue. There’s no telling how many bodies were sent down at the onset of the plague that killed most of the world.

“Our secondary goal,” Jordan says after a pause, “is to find the generators and see if we can get the emergency lights up for a while.”

“It’s a maze down here, how are we supposed to find it?” Bull demands.

“Melissa said there’s a map of every floor by the doors. Since the elevator is the main entrance, I’m assuming it’s around there. So keep an eye out for it. Hopefully it’ll tell us where we need to go.”

“Right,” Danny says, taking the map back and folding it to put it back in his pack. “Let’s do this.”

Jordan and Cora trade places. She reaches for the door handle as the others ready their weapons. She has to put her werewolf strength behind it because it’s locked, but after a few seconds of straining, the door comes away with a metallic squeal as the metal warps, trying to remain locked. There will be no locking that door behind them.

When nothing lunges out of the dark at them, Bull advances the first few steps into the pitch blackness of the hallway. They’ve been in the dark since they descended into the basement. It’s claustrophobic because they’re underground. Bull rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen the tense knots that have settled into them. He’ll feel better once they get the lights up.

Jordan files in behind the big former linebacker, seeming none the worse for wear. He and Cora have become the go-to team for clearing places where it’s dark. They’ve got a system. He makes sure to point his flashlight at the ground as he sets it into the slot on his rifle and sets the stock into his shoulder. There’s no point in not making noise now, getting the door open has alerted whatever might be down here to their presence already.

Cora takes point, her vision is best in the faint light of the three flashlights. It feels backwards to her, clearing the basement before finding the generators, but they have no idea where the generator room is, so they’ve got no choice.

The hallway is quiet. A quick check reveals that the supply closet is locked. Bull and Danny take the first office, confirming that it’s empty as Cora and Jordan take the second. There’s a body slumped over the desk, unmoving and well into decomposition. Whoever the guy was, he’d opted to not be killed by zombies. Jordan closes the door behind him when they leave.

The morgue itself has two large stainless steel doors of the swinging variety. As the group lines up outside them, the beams of light from their flashlights make the metal glint. They can hear vague movement on the other side of the door. Shuffling and clinking like whatever is in there had bumped into something.

It’s mostly silent, however.

The four exchange looks and ready nods, bracing themselves for whatever they find on the other side, and then Jordan and Cora lead the way into the room.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The raid on the hospital continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so two things: 1) Coulrophobia is the actual name for "fear of clowns" and 2) All I can say is thank you for my inner buffy fan and my ability to retain the funny one-liners.
> 
> Also, **I'm Sorry**

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Seventeen:_

 

Stiles sighs and brushes flakes of dried ink off his arm. The one good thing about this whole ordeal, he’s decided, is the fact that when the shit hit the fan, the kids and babies had been the first to be evacuated. He’s grown accustomed to killing over the last five months. It’s a necessity for continued survival in this new world they live in. But he’s not sure he could have handled it if he’d been forced to put down the walking corpses of children.

The very thought makes him shudder.

“Don’t think about it,” Peter advises kneeling on the landing by the step where Stiles is sitting. “It didn’t happen, so there’s no point in dwelling on it.”

Peter is perfectly capable of killing children; he just doesn’t. Stiles catches the wolf’s gaze, can see the haunted flickering in the blueness he’s come to love, and he reaches out for Peter’s hand.

It’s been a long day, and it’s not over. It seems that the vast majority of the hospital’s undead denizens had been congregated in the stairways and the lobby. The weighted doors into the stairwell had been just heavy enough to resist the efforts and limited intelligence of the average zombie, trapping them inside. There were plenty that hadn’t made it that far before the hospital had been overrun, but the numbers they’ve encountered have been manageable.

“He’s right,” Malia says, sitting down heavily and leaning against Stiles’ shoulder. She likes Stiles, and Stiles likes her. If he wasn’t so thoroughly in love with Peter, Malia might have contemplated making a play for him; as it was, they were good together, so she wasn’t going to get in the middle of that. “There’s no point thinking about what we’d be willing to do to survive until we’re faced with the choice.”

Chris is leaning on the railing, peering down into the darkness. They’re taking a breather before they hit the fourth floor. The third had been mostly clear. They’d encountered a good dozen zombies, but nothing they couldn’t handle. They are taking a few minutes to regroup, and Stiles is taking the time to repaint the runes on his arms just in case.

“I know,” Stiles says, because he does know. “It’s just sad.”

“It’s always been sad,” Chris states, straightening up. “Loss always is. There’s just more of it now.”

There’s a long pause, and then Stiles snorts, “We’re so cheerful we could make a clown cry.”

Next to him, Malia shudders, “Don’t even joke about that.” Stiles stares at her, and her shoulders come up defensively, “What? Coulrophobia is a thing.”

“I know that,” Stiles replies, “I just never pictured you as scared of much of anything.”

“Well, now you know better,” she says primly, and stands up. “Let’s go kill more dead things.”

The abrupt shift in Malia’s mood isn’t a surprise to Stiles and Peter because they’ve had months to get used to it. It gives Chris a pause for a second before he shrugs it off. He raised a teenager; he can handle Malia’s very blunt way of looking at the world.

The four of them head up the stairs to the fourth floor landing, where Chris pulls his sidearm, readying himself to fire as Peter positions himself to open the door. A glance at the other two reveals that they’re both ready as well, so Chris nods at Peter, who yanks open the door.

*

Melissa cusses as the zombie in front of her collapses like an accordion, nearly taking her with it. She struggles for a few seconds, manages to wrench her knife out of its skull and get to her feet. Just in time to see an arrow sink itself into the head of the zombie trying to get her from behind.

She spares an appreciative glance for Allison, “Have I told you how glad I am that you made it home yet?”

Allison laughs even as she walks over to retrieve her arrow. The second floor has been mostly quiet, consisting mostly of exam rooms and lab spaces. Melissa and Allison had spit up from Scott and Isaac near the elevators when the first half of the floor had proved empty. The goal is to sweep their way across the floor and meet up on the other side, at the entrance to the east stairwell. It seems to be working well.

“You know,” Allison remarks as they exit the room and head further down the hall. “I never figured this would be my life.”

Melissa knows that Allison doesn’t mean the zombies or the end of the world. She doesn’t mean the cold showers or the unidentifiable road meals or the smell of rotting flesh permeating everything. She means that she’s back here. That she didn’t graduate from college in May like she was supposed to. That she can’t go to medical school with a specialty in child psychology like she’d been planning.

She’s nowhere near where she thought she’d be. Instead she’s back in Beacon Hills, and everything is once again trying to kill her.

“It could be worse,” Melissa decides after a few awkward minutes of trying to figure out how to console the girl.

“It could?”

“We could be in the sewers as is inevitable in nearly every zombie movie I’ve ever seen.”

The statement surprises the huntress enough that all she can do is laugh in response.

“I mean, we’ve got two of the trifecta down,” Melissa continues, grinning, “The world ended in spectacular fashion, complete with pointless rioting and looting; and now we’re raiding a zombie infested hospital. One trip into the sewers and we’ll have earned ourselves a year’s supply of turtle wax.”

Allison shakes her head, her chuckles dying down, but the smile remaining, “Come on, let’s go see if we can fulfill any more cliches.”

*

“Fuck!”

Cora has had enough, she decides, as Jordan’s tone goes from angry to pained. She’s been unwilling to admit to herself just how attached to the deputy she’s become since she and Derek found him wandering naked down Main Street, but she’s not losing him before she does. She wolfs out, letting out a roar as she puts all of her not inconsiderable strength behind it as she flings the heavy exam table across the room.

It does exactly as she intended. It slams into the trio of zombies closing on Jordan, downing them long enough for him to get out his knife and strike. Behind him, Danny uses the axe to strike over his shoulder.

The rifles have proven practically useless once they’d gotten past the morgue doors. Not only did the shots echo painfully, but the crush of bodies and the size of the room made not hitting an ally nearly impossible. In fact, Bull had reduced his to a bludgeoning instrument, the stock shiny with blood.

They had expected a lot of bodies when they got here, but they hadn’t expected the sheer quantity of bodies. There are a good dozen zombies in the room, and twice as many corpses. A single walker is enough to down a regular man, so a dozen in tight quarters is proving to be a hard task.

“Incoming!” Danny yells, and something whizzes past Jordan, slamming into the zombies. The glass bottle shatters, and the flaming rag he’d shoved into bottle of alcohol ignites the rest of the liquid. The flash of flame and heat makes both Cora and Bull pull back, but Jordan snarls and grabs the abandoned axe as he strides forward through the flames.

Another bottle goes sailing past, and Jordan swings, shattering the bottle in mid-air, causing a gout of flames to erupt across the five remaining zombies. Something inside Parrish roars to life, and he reaches out and just _grabs_ the flames out of the air. They surround his fist, growing brighter and hotter the longer he holds them as he swings his fist into the face of the closest zombie.

“Holy shit!” Bull exclaims, and Cora remembers that he doesn’t know that Jordan is fireproof.

It only takes a few more flaming punches and a couple swings of the axe for the rest of the zombies to go down. When it’s over, Jordan Parrish stands in the middle of the morgue, hair standing on end and his skin smoking through the burned holes in his clothes.

“Hot damn,” Cora says, breaking the stunned silence.

“Did you know you could do that?” Danny asks from his place by the supply cabinet.

Jordan turns to look at them. “No, I didn’t.”

Danny shakes his head. “Right. Okay. Figure you out later, let’s go find the generators and see if we can get the lights on.”

*

Aiden sets his hands on his knees, breathing heavily as the energy leaves him just as quickly as it arrived. Separating from his twin is disorienting. Somehow, merging is easier to adapt to than the separation. He’s alone again in his head and in his body, and he feels like there’s too much space inside him for a minute. His vision swims, and he thinks he might float away. Then outside awareness sinks in, and he’s just Aiden again.

When his vision focuses, he can see that Mark looks completely horrified, yet fascinated.

“Thanks,” the other man remarks, lips quirking upward, “But only for the bit where you guys saved my life.”

Next to him, Ethan snorts, and maneuvers himself into a chair. Melding like that takes a lot more out of them than it did when they were alphas.

Mark is grateful because being trapped under a collapsed wall while the dead feasted on his flesh isn’t exactly his idea of a good time. He skirts around the rubble, wondering how the wall had been weakened in the first place, but he decides it probably doesn’t matter. It’s not like they’re clearing the hospital so that they can move in.

“That is still just as disturbing as the first time I saw it,” Derek says, scratching at the drying blood on his face. The cut that had put it there is long healed, but the blood remains. “Only, I think there was more adrenaline this time because I’m not as weirded out.”

“You’re also older and wiser, too,” Ethan offers. “Means you know better than to freak out by now.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

The pile of dismembered zombie bodies makes Mark wince, because somehow that’s even worse than what they usually deal with. He turns his gaze from what had almost been his death to the two men that had saved his life. “I didn’t know you guys could do that that fast,” he remarks.

“Years of practice,” Aiden replies. “Years of practice.”

“Why don’t you guys hang out here? Mark and I can handle the last couple of offices,” Derek decides. Mark nods in agreement.

The twins turn to look at each other, speaking in that way they do without saying anything.

“Sounds good to me,” Aiden finally says, and sits down next to Ethan.

*

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Before an answer can be given, a loud thumping sounds. It drifts down from above, and four sets of eyes turn to the ceiling.

“You don’t think?” Stiles begins.

The ceiling is a typical drop ceiling, so Chris snorts, “Those ceiling tiles are the construction equivalent of styrofoam, they wouldn’t hold anything up.”

“The roof, maybe?” Malia postulates.

“Why would anyone trap themselves on the roof?” Stiles wonders. “There’s no telling how long it would be before you got rescued.”

“To be fair, they were probably thinking that the roof didn’t have anything on it that was going to to try to eat them,” Peter offers dryly.

Stiles snorts, shaking his head. In his experience, nothing good ever came of retreating to the roof save for in the case of flooding. Malia pats his arm as she passes him, her flashlight swinging from side to side as she examines the surgical suite they’re in. It’s all shiny metal and neat order. It’s a genuine surprise that it’s empty; the other two hadn’t been.

“We should probably check it out,” Chris decides with a sigh. “Or at least make sure the lock on the door is holding.”

Peter nods in agreement. “Probably. Let’s finish up here.”

The four ready themselves to venture back out into the rest of the floor; their quiet moment of rest has passed.

*

Scott raises one hand, the other solid in its grip on the handle of the door to the east stairwell. He holds up five fingers, eyes going from one person to the next. Isaac and Melissa both nod grimly, and Allison draws back the string on her bow, aiming at the door. Scott’s eyes flicker red, and he drops one finger.

They can all hear the noise on the other side of the door. The shuffling movements of the dead and the vague moaning noises as they jostle around in the dark. They all know what’s waiting for them on the other side of that door.

Or rather, they all know who.

Scott drops another finger.

Isaac braces himself up onto the balls of his feet. He’s wolfed out and wielding a crowbar in his hands - crude, yet efficient. His job is to direct the flow of bodies by killing anything that might stray out of the radius of Scott and Melissa and their bladed weapons.

A third finger goes down.

Alison’s job is to contain the zombies to the small area they’ve designated for this. With the door acting as a chokepoint, they should only get two or three at a time, but if the numbers in the other stairwell are any indication, they can’t risk a stray getting around behind Scott or Melissa.

Scott drops the second to last finger and braces himself. Then he drops the last one and he yanks the door open. The first zombie stumbles through with a rattling groan, finding itself the victim of Allison’s first arrow. The rest of the zombies behind it start milling about in earnest, realizing that there is a way out and prey to be had.

The choke point works.

They come out of the door in ones and twos at first. It allows the team to take turns swinging, saving energy and strength. Then the crush of bodies swells, the steady trickle turns into a flow, and all combatants become active.

The dim glow of the flashlights doesn’t allow for much range of vision, and all of them have to be careful not to hit each other. Unfortunately, the hallway has no windows, those having been reserved for the patient rooms in this wing of the hospital.

Suddenly, above them, the lights flicker once. Then twice, and then they come on with a faint buzz. Further back, down the hall, one of the bulbs goes out with a pop. In the suddenly brightly lit doorway, looming out of the darkness beyond, comes the one zombie they’d all been dreading.

Whatever is left of Rafael McCall is torn and bloody. There are gaping wounds on his arms and at his neck. His clothes are torn and bloody, his eyes vague and clouded, sightless. When the zombie that used to be Scott’s father and Melissa’s ex-husband wanders through the doorway, it seems as though all of the air gets sucked out of the hallway.

Scott feels like he’s been punched in the gut at the sight of his father’s corpse. Melissa lets out a distressed noise and falls back. Allison pulls out one of her knives in reaction, taking out the zombie reaching for the woman who has become like a mother to all of them. Isaac snarls at his alpha’s distress and quickly takes out the two that had come through the door with McCall, heading around to take him out from the rear.

Scott visibly shakes himself, reminding himself that his father wouldn’t want to be left like this. He knows that this isn’t his father anymore. The knowledge doesn’t make it easier, but Scott moves forward, looks the corpse of his father in the eyes, and swings his machete. The blow hits the side of the zombie’s head, backed by all of Scott’s Alpha strength, the blade goes nearly all the way through.

It does the job, and the zombie formerly known as Rafael McCall crumples to the ground, dead for good.

There’s a moment of shocked stillness at the job finally done after all this time, and then Isaac howls in pain.

Allison fires first, one arrow to the skull of the zombie with the beta in its grip. A knife into the second. Scott growls loudly, leaping on the dead coming through the doorway. Melissa darts forward to help untangle Isaac and pull him out of the fray as Allison and Scott close ranks to finish the job they came to do.

Melissa drags Isaac the thirty feet down the hall to the nurse’s station, propping the young man against the desk. He’s bitten through his lip in an attempt not to yell in pain. He’s cradling his left shoulder, eyes wide with shock, pain and horror. Melissa shushes him, getting him to let out a gusty sigh and let go of his lip. She reaches out and turns him, peeling his shirt down to get a look at the wound.

A large set of teeth marks around a jagged piece of torn out flesh stares back at her.

*

The sunlight when they get out onto the roof is nearly blinding after the darkness inside of the hospital. Thankfully there are only three or four zombies on the roof, one of which had tangled itself on one of the A/C units, creating the thumping they’d been hearing.

“Did you hear that?” Stiles demands as soon as the howl rings up from below them. He knows a howl from nothing.

“Something’s wrong,” Peter says, head turned back toward the stairs.

“Time to go,” Stiles decides and heads back down the stairs, the others rushing after them.

Peter, who can differentiate between howls, steers them off onto the second floor, running as quickly as he can down the hallway, Stiles at his heels. As they round the corner, it becomes clear that something has gone horribly wrong.

“Down!” Stiles yells as soon as the crush of bodies at the end of the hallway comes into sight.

Scott, over years of conditioning, and months of working with Stiles and his magic, dives for the floor, dragging Allison with him as a ball of fire roars over their heads, colliding with the zombies in the doorway. It impacts with a flash of light, incinerating one zombie and blasting the two behind it back into the stairwell. Peter vaults over their heads, wolfed out and snarling as both he and Stiles charge into the stairwell, taking the fight beyond the group clustered around the door.

Chris sets himself into the doorframe, weapon drawn and firing, the retort of the gun echoing down the concrete shaft. Flashes of light and fire accompany the gunshots and snarling.

Malia skids to a stop, dropping to her knees next to Isaac and Melissa, “What happened? What can I do?”

“I need to stop the bleeding,” Melissa says, gesturing at the little supply room attached to the nurse's station. Malia nods, gets up, walks over, and shoots the lock out.

*

Derek stands and watches as the jeep peels out of the parking lot. He had wanted to be in that car, wanted to do something, _anything_ to change what’s happened… but there’s nothing for him to do. Except for the job they came here to do.

He turns back to the pack around him. “Come on, let’s finish the job.”

No one follows at first. Most of the wolves linger, staring in the direction the car carrying Isaac, Melissa and Scott has gone. Eventually, Aiden shakes himself out of his stupor, claps Chris on the shoulder and follows after Derek.

They have a job to finish, and Isaac had flat out told them he’d kick their asses if they didn’t finish it.

Besides, there’s nothing else they can do.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answer to the ultimate question: What happens when a werewolf gets bitten by a zombie? and the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
> 
> I'm not sorry about the bit with Jordan and Cora.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Eighteen:_

 

Melissa sinks into the couch next to Bobby with a heavy sigh. Every sinew of her body is exhausted. Bobby lifts one arm and lets her sink into his side while she gathers her bearings. It had taken most of the day to clear the hospital, and then Isaac had been bitten; and, well, it had been a long day.

The pack had returned after securing the hospital, so they could return to continue gathering supplies the next day. That is an entirely different problem that Melissa isn’t looking forward to: sorting and storing all of that stuff.

“Mom?” Scott’s voice breaks her out of her contemplation and she opens her eyes to find her boys staring at her with apprehension. Scott has that worried puppy look on his face and Stiles is standing behind him (he’s _hers_ , he has been for years) practically vibrating in place.

“There’s nothing I can do for him,” she tells him, seeing no point in sugarcoating what they already know. “If he’d been bitten on the arm, I’d say let’s take the arm off to try and stop the virus, but he wasn’t.”

“What about his healing factor?” Stiles asks. “Wouldn’t that make him more equipped to fight it?”

“That or it could make it worse,” Peter says, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. “The virus came about magically, who knows what it will do when it encounters a supernatural being.”

“So he could be fine?” Scott asks, latching onto any hope he can.

“He could be,” Peter replies. “Or it could just take longer to kill him, or it could mutate. There’s no telling what will happen.”

“So we wait,” Derek states, finally speaking instead of just sitting in his seat with a look of absolute doom on his face. He may not show it all that often, but he does care, and Isaac was the first one he’d bitten as an Alpha, so there is still a connection there.

“There’s nothing else we _can_ do,” Melissa says.

No one mentions how they’re all wishing Deaton was still around to help them figure this out. They don’t have to.

*

It takes three days for the fever to set in. Three long days where the hope that nothing will happen increases; but that hope is shattered as Isaac’s temperature skyrockets. The infection in his shoulder spreads as his fever goes up, ugly blackened veins under red inflamed skin.

He’s fighting a losing battle, and they all know it.

His werewolf healing tries, does its best to fight and defeat the virus. His temperature fluctuates, and then it breaks.

“What’s happening?” Lydia whispers. She’s sitting on a chair, unable to bring herself to look through the little window into the isolation room. Melissa had deemed it too dangerous for any of them to go in when he had started randomly shifting two days in, the sole exception being herself.

Scott hasn’t moved from his place pressed against the wall by the door in all this time, and he has no intention of leaving any time soon. Stiles sits next to him, their shoulders pressed together. The rest of the pack has been coming and going, keeping the vigil with their Alpha, but still making sure life continues.

“His fever’s broken,” Melissa says as she finishes locking the door behind her. She then throws the pile of soiled bandages and gloves into the trash before going to the sink to wash her hands.

“What does that mean?” Aiden asks from his place pressed into Lydia’s side.

Lydia is pale, her skin nearly translucent, she can already feel the wings of death coming for Isaac. She can already feel him slipping away as the thing that he will become slides into the empty places his soul is leaving behind. Her skin is cold, and she wishes there was something more she could do other than tell them that their friend is dying.

“It means,” Melissa says, walking back over to crouch in front of her son and set her hand on his arm, “that he doesn’t have much time left. I think breaking the fever was the last ditch effort of an overtaxed healing ability.”

Scott presses his lips together, tight enough to drain all the blood out of them, turning them white. His gaze is desperate but also resigned. “One of us is going to have to go in there.”

Allison lets out a sob at the words, making Scott finally get up and go to her. She and Isaac had become very close friends over the years. While Scott might be the love of her life, Isaac is her brother. She lets him wrap her in his arms, and she lets the tears fall.

There’s a long period of silence. It’s tense but layered with exhaustion. No one gives voice to the thought, but it runs through more than one of their minds: When would the dying stop?

“I’ll go.”

The statement is soft, carefully level. Peter stands in the corner near Stiles, not lurking but not part of the main group. It’s reminiscent of how things had been, in the early days, after his resurrection. He’s kept his eye on Stiles, and the others besides. He knows that if anyone else goes into that room to put Isaac out of his misery, that person will break.

He’s seen enough brokenness in the past to know he doesn’t want any of his pack to shatter.

“Peter,” Stiles begins to protest, but his voice cuts out when a hollow boom comes from the door to the isolation room. Everything stops, and they all turn to stare at the door. Another thud rattles the door in its frame.

“It’s too late,” Lydia whispers, voice hollow, and then she _wails_ in a way none of them have heard before. It’s mournful and hair raising, and they all know what it means. Then her eyes roll back in her head and she passes out, slumping in her seat and being caught by Aiden.

Another hollow thud hits the door, and the wood creaks and starts to splinter.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, moving away from the door as the rest get to their feet. Peter steps up next to him, claws extended as he settles onto the balls of his feet.

The next hit breaks the door out of its frame, and it hits the ground with a thud. The scent of necrotic flesh reaches them, and the sight of the figure standing in the doorway causes a shudder of horror to go up many spines.

The thing in the doorway isn’t Isaac. It might have been once, but whatever might have remained of the wolf no longer resides there. In Isaac’s place stands a zombie wearing his face. His skin is hollow looking somehow and a dark mottled gray-brown, shot through by black veins. His eyes are clouded over but somehow still glowing beta bright. He’s shifted, but it’s not right. His face elongated along with his limbs, snout and fangs and huge pointed ears.

“Oh my god,” Malia whispers, and her voice breaks the spell all of them seem to be under.

The zombie wolf snarls, moving across the room toward Malia at speed. Robert puts himself between the teen and the charging zombie, getting in under the snapping jaws and setting his shoulder into the bony torso. His eyes are glowing gold and he’s straining to hold fast. Claws rake down his back, and he howls in pain.

Peter and Ethan both leap across the space, locking onto the flailing claws of the zombie werewolf doing its utmost to savage Robert and Malia. It’s stronger than the average wolf, but it’s the least surprising thing about this situation.

Stiles lunges for his bat, and as soon as he’s got it in his hands, he takes aim and swings with all his might at the head of the creature. It doesn’t do much, just makes it angrier somehow. It rears back, sending Ethan and Robert flying. Peter manages to keep his grip on it, though his feet leave the floor, and he’s forced to scramble for purchase.

Liam and Cora both enter the fray, going for the legs, trying to take it to the ground. The zombie turns on the spot, still trying to get at Malia, who is trying to get out of the way as she regrets having spoken and caught its attention. Scott moves forward, helping her by pulling her out of the way. She careens across the room into one of the beds.

The Alpha sets his feet and _roars._

The furious, bone-chilling howl gives the whole room pause. Including the zombie wolf. It’s just enough time for the first bullet to hit. Chris Argent strides into the room, .45 aimed and firing as he walks toward the zombie. Bull follows closely behind with Olsen, both firing with their shotguns as soon as they’ve got a clear line of sight.

Peter takes some buckshot to the flank, and he takes that as his cue to get out of the way. He lets go, ducking at the same time that the dead wolf takes a swing at him with its now free arms. On the ground, Liam and Cora make the simultaneous decision to let go, scrambling away as the three men continue to fire into the beast.

Eventually, the wolf takes enough damage to collapse to the ground. It isn’t dead yet, and continues to make aborted, ravenous movements toward the nearest of them.

Peter gets to his feet, shoving aside the tray of medical instruments that he’d taken down with him with a clatter. His hand scrabbles in the mess for moment before coming away with a scalpel. He strides forward. He’s favoring his right side, but his movements aren’t impeded as he moves over to the fallen hulk of undead wolf that used to be his packmate, grabs onto the beast’s head, and slams the scalpel as far into the back of its head as his own werewolf strength will allow.

The beast stills, slumping to the floor, leaving the rest staring and panting around it.

“Holy shit,” Liam says finally, voicing the thought they’re all thinking.

*

They cremate him. No one feels comfortable burying the thing that used to be Isaac after what he’d changed into. So they build a pyre and burn him. It feels right, well, not right per se, but better than sticking him in a hole in the ground while he wears the visage of a monster.

None of them say anything about how they now know for sure what will happen if a werewolf gets bitten by a zombie.

Stiles has the first nightmare that night. He wakes, chest heaving as he calls for Peter. Who, despite being there next to him, repeatedly telling him that he’s fine, that he’s not going anywhere, doesn’t seem able to calm him. His heart rabbits in his chest, and he clutches at the wolf that has become his world, dry sobs heaving through his body.

“Shhh,” Peter hushes him softly, holding him close and running fingers through his hair.

It takes a long time for Stiles to calm enough to get anything out that sounds like actual words, but when he finally does, it’s a quietly murmured, “Promise me…”

“Promise you?”

Stiles draws in a deep breath, braces himself, and pulls away from Peter, just far enough to be able to look him in the eyes. “Promise me that no matter what we have to do, that won’t ever be us. Promise me we’ll never become those things.”

A growl rumbles through Peter. It’s deep and menacing, and Stiles finds it comforting. “I swear,” Peter grits out around fangs he can’t contain at the thought of Stiles as a shambling undead thing with no memory and no feeling save for hunger. “I swear I will never let either of us become those things. I’ll kill us both if it comes to it.”

Stiles’ grip tightens briefly, and then he tucks himself back into the crook of Peter’s neck. The tension in his shoulders eases a little as they lay there. Eventually he whispers, “I promise too.”

Peter’s beta blue eyes gleam in the darkness. “I know.”

The quiet of the night folds in around them. Dim light filters through the blinds from the single street light Danny has somehow managed to get lit. It makes the world feel a little more normal, a little less oppressive. Sometimes, late at night like this, they can even pretend that the world hasn’t ended.

Tonight isn’t one of those nights.

The tension eventually leaks out of Stiles’ frame, and he reaches out and weaves the fingers of one hand through Peter’s. Moments like these, the quiet ones when it’s just them, he feels like they’ve been this way forever. That they’ve always been _them_ even though he knows that without the world ending, they never would have been.

Stiles feels a little bad that he feels grateful that the world ended. He can’t imagine being without Peter now. He just wishes it hadn’t come at such a high price.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Peter murmurs against the skin of his head. “I love you, too.”

Stiles sighs and decides it doesn’t matter now. The world is the world, and he and Peter know each other so well that sometimes they don’t even need words. He presses a tired kiss to the skin over Peter’s heart, mutters an ‘I love you’ back, and lets sleep take him.

*

When he finds her, Jordan Parrish does the only thing he can think of to get Cora Hale to stop brooding. He flops onto the couch as close to her as he can, dislodging her and setting her jostling as the cushions dip under his weight, making her tip into him. She grumbles at him, and he pretends not to notice how she settles herself into his side like it’s her rightful place. Instead, he cracks open the old book in his hands.

“What’s this?” she finally asks, once they’ve both settled and Jordan’s feet are up on the coffee table. It’s an older book, with a worn leather cover that Cora recognizes as having come from her uncle’s library.

“It’s a book about creatures that can control fire,” Jordan informs her. “I figured that thing I did in the morgue was a pretty good clue as to where to start looking.”

Cora knows that while the rest of them might not care overmuch just _what_ he is (because he’s still Jordan) that he cares. The fact that he doesn’t know what he is burns him up inside (metaphorically) because it means that he’s been lied to his entire life. He _needs_ to know.

“Ooh, what about a Phoenix?” Cora says, pointing to the painted image of a bird on fire that accompanies the first entry in the book.

“I am _not_ immortal,” Jordan says flatly. “Nor did I have feathers last time I checked.”

Cora punches him in the shoulder, making him wince, and then tucks herself under his abused arm. “Come on, be serious and read the thing.”

She takes the book from him, smoothing out the pages after she settles it in her lap. Jordan watches her for a moment. She doesn’t care one whit what he is or isn’t, but she cares that he cares, and suddenly it hits him. The feelings he’s been shoving down because he hasn’t wanted to chance ruining the team they’ve built between them; but the world has ended, and a newer, more dangerous one is taking its place.

“I love you,” he says before the words register in his brain.

Her entire frame freezes visibly for a second in shock, and then she looks up at him. “What?”

“I love you,” he tells her again, his voice a little firmer. In for a penny and all that. “I just need you to know that.”

She glares at him. “Nuh-uh. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to tell me you love me _just in case we die.”_

“That’s not why!” he yelps, then cringes because (under the circumstances) it sounds exactly like that. “I just realized that that’s what I’ve been feeling. It just sort of… came out.”

Cora stares at him, then she blinks and smirks at him in that infuriating way of hers that makes him want to perform feats of strength just to _prove…_ whatever she’s taunting him about. It’s disconcerting, but it’s very Cora. “Well,” she says finally, her voice smug, “It’s about time you figured it out.”

“What?”

“I _know_ you love me, doofus,” she informs him. “I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up. Don’t worry, you’re a guy so you’re not as in tune to your feelings.”

His eyebrows scrunch at the dig, but he really can’t be bothered to be insulted because it’s sort of true. It really can take guys a while to figure the emotional side of things out. Then he registers the rest of what she said. “Wait.” He holds up a hand. “Are you telling me you love me too and that we’ve been in a relationship all this time?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“Since when?”

“Since the basement at the Sheriff’s Station.”

“Oh my god,” he says, tone exasperated. He wrestles the book out of her hands and sets it aside, then he takes her head in his hands.

She tries to pull away. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up and kiss me, goofus,” he tells her with a grin.

And she does.

*

Derek finds Scott sitting in the dining hall, a half full bottle of whiskey in front of him and a partially empty glass in his hand. It’s well past midnight, heading swiftly into pre-dawn. Scott is slumped at a table by one of the windows, his attention drifting between the glass cradled in his hands and the sky above the roofs of the warehouses, which is barely showing a hint of lightening.

“You know,” Derek remarks. “That’s not going to work.”

Scott snorts, “Yeah, but I can try.”

They are both thoroughly aware that the superior healing of their werewolf constitutions don’t allow them to get drunk. They’ve both tried, multiple times. In order to feel even a slight buzz, they would have to drink enough alcohol to make a regular human drop dead on the spot.

Derek retrieves a glass and wanders over, sitting down across from his Alpha and pouring himself a little of the whiskey. He knocks it back, making a face at the burn, and then pours himself a little bit more. The pair sits in silence for a long while, watching the sky slowly lighten to a washed out, pale gray.

“You know we can’t ever let any of us turn like that again,” Derek finally says, putting voice to the thoughts swirling in more than one mind.

Scott frowns, glances down at his cup, and swirls the liquid around before knocking it back like a shot. He looks up finally, meeting the green gaze of a man he’s come to trust. At the wolf who is his second in command now that Isaac is gone. “I know,” he says finally.

The sheer amount of damage one of them could do if turned is catastrophic. It’s a miracle Isaac hadn’t killed any of them. It had been pure luck that Chris had arrived when he had. That the man hadn’t hesitated to shoot the boy he’d once taken under his wing after the Alpha Pack had run rampant.

In the infirmary there hadn’t been anywhere for Isaac to go except _out_. Should one of them turn outside of such controlled surroundings? It didn’t bear contemplation.

Derek sits back in his seat, watching Scott with hooded eyes and a small frown ticking at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll all agree. Hell, I insist.”

Scott turns his gaze back to the sky which is starting to pinken with dawn light. “It’s not an agreement any of you have to make. It just is.”

Scott is, at the very core of his being, a protector. The end of the world has just focused that part of him into a razor sharp determination to keep as much of his family alive as he possibly can. That’s what his pack is now: family. He will tear apart any threat to his family.

Even if it means he’s got to kill one of his own before they hurt another.

The door leading to the stairs to the apartments above opens, and Blake, Oscar and the rest of Derek’s small construction crew file into the room, heading for the coffee pot and whatever they can get for breakfast. A glance at the clock on the wall reveals that it’s nearing five in the morning, and it’s time to go to work.

Ethan enters from the outside door and ambles over to the two at the table. He takes a seat next to Derek as Alex appears and slumps into the seat next to Scott with a mumbled good morning. The man may be trying to raise three kids at the end of the world, but he has never been a morning person.

“Aiden’s going to stay with Lydia today,” Ethan informs Derek, and takes the cup of coffee Oscar offers him when the mechanic arrives at the table.

None of the men make mention of the nearly empty bottle on the table or Scott’s silence.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson and his Troupe of Traveling Werewolves make their first appearance. Stiles and Peter make a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after the last chapter, I thought some levity was in order. We've reached the six month mark in the year, and things are going to start looking up for our intrepid survivors. Enter Jackson's Troupe of Traveling Werewolves.
> 
> Imagine Margot as sort of like Faith from BtVS.
> 
> Peigi is Scottish, a diminutive of Maragaret and means 'pearl according to [behindthename](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.behindthename.com/name/peigi&sa=D&ust=1470838740331000&usg=AFQjCNGApBLL7B2nTXqwW9isNWi4ekMEvw).
> 
> I totally made up the town of Merriman. If such a town exists I have no idea where it is.
> 
>  

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Nineteen: _

 

Jackson Whittemore growls to himself, eyes flashing angrily. He’s found himself wishing he still had his kanima form more and more lately as he’s journeyed across the country, trying to get home. Venomous claws and a whipping tail would be more useful against the dead than fangs he doesn’t dare bite with. It’s taken five and a half months to get over the Rockies into the desert of middle Nevada.

He’s so sick of this shit.

He takes his anger out on the zombie trying to pull him off the top of the dumpster he’d clambered onto at the first sign of things going to hell. He brings the metal pipe he’s taken a liking to and bashes its skull in, making it crumple to the ground.

“Who’s bright idea was this?!” he demands loudly so that his companions will hear him.

And isn’t that shit funny? He, Jackson Whittemore, king douche and self-centered asshole has companions? Ha. Aside from his pack (and sometimes not even them) he doesn’t trust anyone.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s had five long months to get to know these idiots as he’s picked them up. He knows he can trust them, and that kind of pisses him off too, somehow.

Across the parking lot of the little gas station they’d stopped at to fill up, one of the Clark brothers guffaws loudly. They’re too far away for Jackson to be able to tell which one of them it is, but his guess is that it was Tyrone; Julius is a bit more practical than his brother.

“Sorry!” one of them yells, even as he takes a mad swing at a zombie. It crumples under the combined force of momentum and werewolf strength.

“I hate you all!” Margot screams from somewhere around the corner, Bostonian accent thicker than usual as she shrieks a howl, and a series of bangs erupt from her position.

Jackson bares his teeth in a facsimile of a grin and takes out another zombie. At least his new friends aren’t humans he’s got to watch over. All four of them are wolves, just like him, which means each of them is perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. It makes situations like this one a little easier to survive.

Suddenly the revving of an engine sounds over the moans and hisses of the zombies trying to kill them, and the black Escalade Jackson stole in Boston careens around the corner. It slams into zombies in front of the dumpster, pinning two of them between the spikes attached to the grill and green metal of the dumpster. Jackson takes it as his opportunity to jump across and vault himself from dumpster to the hood and up to the roof and into the open sunroof.

In the driver’s seat, Stan Haversham’s got a murderous expression on his face as he throws the vehicle in reverse and backs it up to pick up the Clarks. The former Minnesota Wild goalie is all flashing beta eyes and snarling expletives. He’s all rage and crushed glass as he rams the horde around the gas pumps the Clarks are using as a stepping off point.

Tyrone climbs in, still cackling, even as the hockey player snaps at him to shut up. Jackson uses the opportunity to use the door as a weapon, slamming it open and then shut on a fallen zombie’s head.

Julius looks just as amused as his brother, but he seems to have contained it better.

“Stop yelling,” Jackson finally snaps. “And go get Margot.”

Stan continues to snarl, but he hits the gas and heads for the icebox their final group member is perched on. Jackson decides, as the vehicle swerves wildly, that he’ll be glad when he’s around people that don’t find it quite as entertaining to provoke hordes of zombies.

Watching Margot lose it after diving through the sunroof and bite Tyrone might make it all worth it though.

*

The moment the Jeep leaves the city limits, Stiles heaves a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in. Peter doesn’t say anything at the abrupt sound; he just keeps driving. Stiles doesn’t know how he does it. How the man can possibly know him so well as to know he’d been practically rattling out of his skin at home.

He needs this. He needs time to process without feeling crowded by other people’s grief. He’d done that with his father, not this time.

Five days after the funeral, when it became apparent that Stiles was just getting worse and worse, Peter had gone to Scott with an idea that had been brewing in the back of his mind for several weeks. It is time to venture out beyond Beacon Hills and see what’s out there. They still have no idea where the people who had attacked the Chicago convoy came from, or if they’re still out there. Are they a threat? There’s no telling what is happening if they just stay in their own little world here, zombie-filled as it is.

Also, the garden is great and all, the harvest that’s fast approaching looks like it will yield good results, but it will only supplement, not feed all of them. They’ll eventually run out of places to look for supplies inside the city, they need to know where to begin outside the city.

Olsen put his two cents in by saying tracking down some chickens and maybe a cow or two wouldn’t be a bad thing. He misses eggs.

Scott has reluctantly agreed. Peter and Stiles can go out on what will be considered a scouting mission, with a side stop for some chickens if they found any. They’ll scout around, see if they are being watched, or perhaps if there are people out there just waiting for an opportunity.

So now, here they are, driving out of town early in the morning. They’ve got supplies for two days and plans to try to stop at the two farms Stiles can think of that might have chickens.

“Thank you,” Stiles says finally.

“Of course,” Peter tells him. He will always do what he can for Stiles; Stiles is  _ his  _ and if nothing else, Peter has proven to be a selfish being who will do whatever he has to to keep what he considers his, even kill.

“Okay,” Stiles says, sitting up a little with a gleam in his eyes. “Chickens.”

“Chickens. Olsen requested at least five, and a rooster if we can find one.”

“So, basically he wants to be able to have baby chickens?”

“Yes.”

Stiles chuckles and when Peter gives him a questioning side-eye he says, “I’m sorry, I just… You’re a wolf on the hunt for chickens.”

Peter gives him a deadpan look. “Woof.”

*

Jenny Rand has been on her own for most of her life. She’s been in and out of the system for the vast majority of her early years until she reached sixteen and ran away from the home. By eighteen she had a badly paying waitress job and shared the rent on a room with another girl. The rent had sucked up her entire paycheck, and she’d eaten a lot of ramen and missed as many meals as she ate.

At nineteen she was pregnant.

And then the world ended.

Adjusting to a life on the road? Scavenging for whatever she can and hiding from things that want to hurt her? Not much different than living on the street. The only real difference is that now if the things that want to hurt her catch her, they’ll eat her. They’ll eat her and her baby.

It’s been three days since she last had anything to eat that was more substantial than a block of dried out ramen noodles. Three days with the oppressive heat of summer beating down on her as the humidity thickens the air. There are dark clouds on the horizon, promising rain; and the nights have started to get cooler.

She’s got to figure something out before it gets too cold. Peigi won’t survive a winter exposed like this. She glances over at the tiny girl she’s brought into this world all on her own. Giving birth to her had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Hiding in a small storage room while zombies beat at the door and doing all she could not to scream or give up or both.

But here she is, and Jenny loves her more than anything she’s ever loved before.

Peigi waves a tiny hand in the air as she stretches. She’s three months old now, growing like a very stubborn weed and sweet like honey. She is Jenny’s entire reason for living.

It’s hard. Trying to get by in a world where even the slightest noise can alert the dead to your presence. Babies make noise. They don’t understand that screaming at the top of their lungs when they’re hungry or tired or in pain no longer just means getting the attention they want, but now also means possibly bringing death down on them.

Jenny cradles the child close to her body, grateful for the sling she’d found in that Walmart just after she’d delivered Peigi. It allows her to keep the baby close and gives her both of her hands if she needs them.

And she does need them.

The town she’s broken down in is absolutely tiny. There’s a single gas station and a tiny grocery and pretty much nothing else. The problem is the car is pretty much dead, so she’s got to find another one. It’s happened before, but every moment they spend without a reasonable means to get away from anything chasing them makes her nervous.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” Jenny whispers softly to the sleeping baby, pressing a kiss to the crown of her downy soft head, “We’re going to be just fine.”

It’s a lie, but it’s a vaguely comforting one.

*

“Oh my god, shut up!” Margot Peterson is Bostonian Irish from the center of her being out. She’s got very little time for patience and a devil may care attitude that has a habit of setting people’s teeth on edge. Of the five wolves she’s found herself ensconced with since the dead started walking, she’s the only one who was born and not bitten. She is convinced that the bite made Tyrone an idiot, because no one can be that obnoxious naturally.

“You need to lighten up,” Tyrone says. He learned a long time ago not to let her surly attitude bother him. She’s mostly bark, but her bite is vicious, and he knows she loves him. “We’re in California sis!”

Her eyes narrow at the back of his head. She hates that he calls her that, but she puts up with it because that’s what these guys are to her now. Her brothers. Her very obnoxious, irritating as hell brothers. She sits up and crawls into the middle seat of the Escalade between the Clark brothers and sticks her head between the two front seats. “Please tell me we’re almost there. I’m gonna kill him.”

Jackson flashes a grin, baring teeth, more amused at her pain than anything else by now. He’s younger than the rest of them, but he’s somehow become their de facto leader by merit of having a plan with a destination and an Alpha at the end of it. None of them will admit it, but they’ve been feeling the strain of not having a true pack to call their own. Jackson’s knowing stability helps, because  _ he does  _ have an Alpha and a pack waiting for him; and he’s convinced that his Alpha will accept the rest of them.

“We’re a few hours out. You can handle a few more hours, can’t you princess?”

Jackson’s voice is always mocking when he calls her that, but she’s a wolf, and she knows it’s a genuine endearment instead of a mocking jab, so she lets him. “I warn you now, if he doesn’t  _ shut up  _ I’m going to rip his throat out with my teeth.”

Tyrone has, for the past four hours, been singing bawdy songs and limericks with the specific purpose of seeing which one of his fellows will crack first. It’s usually Margot. He also knows when to cut it out because he subsides when Julius gives him a look that could peel paint. Julius then reaches out and tugs gently on the back of Margot’s shirt, drawing her back into her seat. She frowns at him.

“We’re almost there,” Julius reminds her. The anticipation and tension has been increasing ever since they’d crossed into California two days ago.

Margot heaves a sigh and slouches into Julius’ side. Jackson may be their leader, but Julius has the uneviable position of big brother for all of them. She lets him tuck her head into his chest, so that he can run his fingers through her hair in a soothing manner. She’s never traveled well, and she’s basically been stuck in this car for six months.

“We need to stop for gas,” Jackson says. “Merriman is coming up, we can stretch our legs and eat something. We should get to Beacon Hills before dark.”

“Okay,” Margot sighs again, letting herself relax into Julius’ side. She turns in her seat and throws her legs over Tyrone’s lap. He lets her. “Okay.”

*

Merriman is the kind of town where if you blink, you’ll miss it. It’s not the tiniest town in the world, but most of it is back away from the highway and takes a bit of driving to find. The only things up against the highway are the gas station, the grocery, a small diner and a little pub called Mike’s. Stiles has never thought much of Merriman before, but he’s just spent twenty minutes chasing a chicken across the diner parking lot, so he’s pretty sure he doesn’t like it here.

The chickens are the sole reason for stopping here on their way back home. Their scouting trip has mostly been a bust. They find recent signs of looting, but it’s old enough that their attackers could have easily made a temporary stop on their way back to wherever they had come from.

Seeing a half dozen escaped chickens wandering around the pub and diner is a highlight to a vaguely disappointing weekend. Stiles has appreciated the time away from all the worries in Beacon Hills. He’s loved just being with Peter and having a goal that didn’t involve anyone else that he loves being in danger.

He has to admit though, watching Peter Hale chase a rooster? One of the funniest things he’s ever seen in his life.

“Is that the last one?” Stiles asks as he shoves the chicken he’s just almost flattened into the large dog kennel they’ve fitted into the back of the jeep.

“It’s the last chicken,” Peter says.

Something in his voice makes Stiles look at him. He’s got his head cocked to one side like he’s listening to something far away, and there’s a little furrow between his eyebrows like he’s confused by whatever he’s hearing.

“What is it?” Stiles knows better than to underestimate the advanced hearing of a werewolf.

“...Crying. I think.”

“Who’s crying?”

Peter’s eyebrows go down and then up. He reaches for his weapon, and Stiles reaches for his bat instinctively at that. He follows the wolf without question because whatever he can hear that Stiles can’t has plastered a very concerned look on his face.

They run around the diner, down a well trod dirt path toward a few trailer homes. As soon as they cross through the little white picket fence Stiles can hear it. It’s faint, but distinctive.

“Is that a baby?” he demands.

Peter listens for a second. “This way.”

Stiles follows at a dead run, because as soon as they round the first trailer, he sees the first zombie. It’s definitely not alone, and it’s definitely heading toward the crying.

It becomes very apparent very quickly that the zombie is a straggler at the tail end of a horde of them gathering around a single-wide trailer. Many of them are beating at the front door, but so far it seems to be holding. Stiles and Peter stop far enough away to not draw attention to take in the situation.

The distinct crying of an unhappy infant can be heard over the moaning of the zombies. It must have drawn every zombie in the trailer park with that crying. The trailer is basically surrounded. It is not an ideal situation for a person without the responsibility of a child, much less one with that responsibility.

“Do you see a back door?”

“It’s blocked.” Peter points, and Stiles can see that whoever had owned this trailer had put a big ugly porch swing in front of a door they never used.

“Window?”

Peter nods. “Best bet is the other side, they’re probably thinner there.”

Stiles nods and follows Peter around the side of the trailer. It’s easy enough to quietly pick off the four or five zombies lingering on this side of the trailer. Peter checks one of the bigger windows, and finding it unlocked, he lifts it as quietly as he can. It protests the movement with a squeal, and the two men share a look and then climb through as quickly as they can.

They stand in the living room area of the trailer for a moment. The crying is louder and coming from the bedroom in the back. Stiles steps forward and calls out, “Hello?”

There’s a thump from the bedroom, and Peter hears something Stiles can’t with the sound of the zombies and the crying. He leads them across the small trailer and shoulders into the bedroom. The door is flimsy, but someone has barricaded it, so it takes a few minutes to clear it enough for them to get through.

What they find on the other side is devastating.

There’s a very red, very upset baby, no more than a couple of months old, in the middle of the bed, wailing for attention. Curled up in the corner, as far from the baby as she can get, is the mother. She’s young, so very young. No more than eighteen or nineteen, and she’s very obviously in the last stages of the virus before she turns completely.

Peter steps across the room and hushes the baby with a coo and scoops her up into his arms. Stiles blinks at the deft way he handles the child as Peter brings her up to his shoulder and very quickly quiets her into hiccups with a swaying motion and soft words. He’s never thought about it, but Peter is Derek and Cora’s uncle; he has to have experience with babies.

Stiles crosses the room and kneels down next to the woman, who is openly crying with relief at the sight of them. When she reaches out, Stiles doesn’t hesitate to take her hand. He lets his bag drop off his shoulder and his fishes out his water bottle. He helps the woman drink, shushing her when she chokes in her haste.

“It’s okay,” he tells her softly, already knowing that it’s definitely not okay for her. He also knows that it will be okay for her daughter. “I’m Stiles, this is Peter.”

“Je-J-Jenny,” it takes a lot of effort to speak. Stiles sits and pulls her into his arms, trying to get her into some semblance of comfort. She sighs at the human contact, genuine relief in her eyes, which she hasn’t taken off of the baby since Peter picked her up. She lifts a heavily shaking hand, reaching for the child. Peter approaches carefully. Kneeling next to them and letting Jenny touch her child, but also prepared to whisk her away at a moment’s notice.

She caresses the baby’s head, love written all over her face, “P-promise?”

Stiles and Peter look at each other. They know she’s asking them to take the baby. Begging them to protect and love her since she knows she can’t.

“What’s her name?” Stiles asks softly.

A shudder goes through Jenny, and Stiles knows it’s nearly over for her. Her arm tells the tale of a fight she might have lost, but the inflamed, angry bite marks won her war. “Peigi. My Peigi.”

“Peigi,” Stiles says softly. He brushes the hair off of Jenny’s sweaty forehead and says, “Jenny, I swear we’ll keep her safe.”

A brief moment of blue and amber meeting, and Stiles knows that it will take an army to pry this child out his and Peter’s cold dead hands. Nothing will ever hurt her, not if they have a say.

Jenny’s eyes close in relief. When they open, she’s crying, but it’s a relieved sort of crying. She reaches for Peigi again, and Peter leans in enough to let her press a kiss to Peigi’s tiny head. “Mommy loves you so much,” Jenny whispers to the baby. “You’re going to be okay, sweetheart. They’re going to take good care of you.”

Peter reads something in Jenny’s face then, and he pulls away. When he looks at Stiles questioningly, Stiles nods, so he rises and leaves the room. Stiles pulls his knife off his belt.

“I-I don’t want to be one of those things,” Jenny tells him, frightened at the prospect.

“You won’t be, I promise,” Stiles tells her, shifting around to get himself into position. She nods, barely, and closes her eyes, ready.

Stiles rams the blade of his knife into the base of her skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some levity and silliness, and yet the death never seems to stop.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson finally makes it home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have officially surprised me. I did not expect such a strong reaction to Jenny as I got. Wow.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty: _

 

Peter cradles Peigi to his chest, looking down into blue eyes that are looking straight back at him. They contemplate each other for a moment, and then Peigi reaches up with her tiny hand and Peter can’t help but dip his head and let her pat at his face while he breathes in her scent and commits it to memory. Beneath the scents of overfull diaper and too many days without a bath is the soft dandelion scent of baby.

He loves her already if the warmth in his chest is any indication.

Stiles walks into the room, turning to close the bedroom door behind him, and Peter knows that Stiles has finished the job. The younger man walks over, peering down at the child, who gazes up at him just as curiously and then gives him a drooly baby smile. Peter watches Stiles melt right there.

“Oh, boy,” Stiles says, gazing down at the girl, enraptured. “Are we in trouble or what?”

Peter snorts, startling Peigi, but she settles easily enough. “Oh, we’re down the rabbit hole, alright. You ready to be a parent?”

“Not even remotely!” Stiles says brightly. “Let’s do it!”

They smile stupidly at each other for about five seconds, and then Peter swoops in over the child between them and presses a ferocious kiss to Stiles’ lips. When they pull apart, they’re both grinning stupidly and Peigi is starting to doze.

“Let’s get our daughter out of this hellhole,” Peter remarks, looking startled for a moment at how easily the ‘our daughter’ came out of him. He’ll probably have a melt down later, when their lives aren’t in grave danger.

Stiles winks and then pulls away to look around the room. A quick search of the trailer unearths a diaper bag loaded with a few onesies, two pairs of footie pajamas and some diapers. There’s a baby sling across it, which answers the question of how they’re going to transport her without hindering movement.

Stiles sets his bag down again and gets out his bottle of special ink and his paintbrush and starts to paint runes up and down his arms. He paints every spell he’s managed to convert into this runic form in the last six months. He’s a powerhouse and has range; it only makes sense for him to do most of the fighting for now.

Peter hasn’t changed a diaper in over fifteen years; not since Derek and Cora’s little brother was a baby. But he knows what to do (and what not to). He makes sure not to inhale as he removes the dirty diaper. Her bottom is angry and irritated, so she’s gonna have a pretty good case of diaper rash, but Peter can’t blame her for that, because it looks like she’s been wearing the same diaper for at least a day. As soon as the diaper is switched out and he’s exchanged the filthy onesie she’s wearing for footie pajamas covered in little frogs, she conks out cold.

“Poor thing exhausted herself with all that crying,” Stiles whispers, watching, paint brush poised over his forearm. Peter can see the envious light in his eyes; he wants to hold the baby.

“Can you blame her?” Peter asks back. “You can hold her when we get to the Jeep. I’ll drive home.”

“Square deal,” Stiles replies, and finishes up his runes. He quickly packs away his gear, and then he helps Peter figure out the baby sling so that Peigi is strapped securely to his chest. Peter shoulders the diaper bag, and then they’re ready.

“Out the front door,” Stiles says. “Go straight for the car, I’m gonna blast the hell out of those things.”

Both Peter and Stiles are vengeful creatures, so Peter just nods and steps away from the door. Stiles turns toward the front door, where the mass of zombies is congregated. He tucks his bat through the strap on his bag and pulls out his father’s .45, clicking the safety off. A light enters his eyes, and a spark surges up his arm, coalescing into a white hot fireball in his palm for a second before it roars toward the door.

The door erupts outward, blowing a hole in the crowd of zombies.

Stiles emerges from the flaming debris with his gun already firing and lightning arcing off his fingertips. Peter follows closely behind. Peigi sleeps through the destruction, unperturbed and safe.

*

“Holy shit!”

Jackson agrees with Stan’s statement as they watch the fireball erupt into the sky from behind the diner. Something familiar and blue out of the corner of his eyes has him turning his head. He knows that Jeep. That is a very familiar Jeep. He’s been run over by that Jeep before.

“Fuck my life,” he snarls and takes off toward the blast.

The others follow because they trust Jackson. The five wolves make short work of the distance between the diner and the gas station where the Escalade is. Just as they begin to round the side of the diner, two familiar men race into view, followed by about twenty zombies. Peter Hale dashes right past Jackson, heading in a beeline for the Jeep. Stiles Stilinski stops, turns, and looses an arc of lightning across the pursuing zombies, frying them from the inside out and turning their brains to mush.

“Stiliniski!” Jackson yells, coming up on his flank, pipe at the ready.

Stiles shoots him an absolutely feral grin, and Jackson is taken aback by the change he can see in him. “It’s about time you showed up Jacks,” Stiles flings at him as he slaps a full magazine into the gun in his hand.

“You know me, I gotta make an entrance.” Five years ago, a comment like that wouldn’t have come from Jackson to Stiles. But that was five years ago. Now, well, now they’re pack.

Between Stiles and the five wolves, the remainder of the zombies go down swiftly. It’s combat unlike anything they’ve seen before. They’ve seen shades of this kind of intensity from Jackson before, but it’s nothing compared to the sheer destruction Stiles is capable of and more than willing to create. Jackson slides into a mindset they’ve rarely seen, and they all  _ know _ deep down that this, this is  _ pack. _

Destruction over, zombies burning all around them, Jackson pulls Stiles into a hug that reveals just how grateful he is to know that someone he considers family (however reluctantly) survived.

“Come on,” Stiles says once they’ve pulled apart.

Stiles leads them over to the Jeep, where Peter is standing casually, leaning against the side, cradling his precious cargo to his chest. Stiles steps into his space quickly, peering down into the bundle of cloth.

“She slept straight through it,” Peter says. He looks around at Jackson, and his eyes flare up wolf blue at the sight of a long-missed packmate. Jackson’s do the same. They hated each other before, but in the months since the world ended all the wolves have become closer to their instincts. They’re pack, that means family. Family means everything.

“Jackson,” Peter says, voice smooth like he hadn’t just watched so much violence. “Come meet our newest pack member.”

Jackson steps away from the wolves he’s brought with him and up to Peter’s unoccupied side, peering down onto the face of the youngest child he’s ever been within five feet of. After a bewildered moment he blurts, “Who the fuck would give you two a baby?!”

Stiles goes with his first reaction, which is to punch Jackson in the shoulder as hard as he can. “Shut up, we’re gonna be awesome dads.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and doesn’t even pretend that Stiles’ punch bothered him. He lifts a hand and gently caresses the baby’s face with the tip of one finger. “It really is the end of the world,” he remarks. “You guys are getting along, and you’ve got a baby. We’re all doomed.”

This time he feels claws against the back of his neck, a subtle, silent threat from Peter to the younger wolf. Jackson grins at him with fangs.

“Are you gonna introduce us, douchemunch?” Margot demands.

Jackson looks around at her, and all of them can see the joy he’s trying to conceal. “Guys, these are two of my packmates, Stiles and Peter. Stiles, Peter, that’s Margot, Julius, Stan and Tyrone.”

“Only you could find yourself a bunch of werewolves to roll with at the end of the world,” Stiles says, grinning as he opens the door to the Jeep and throws his gear inside. Peter hands him the diaper bag, and it follows.

Jackson shrugs. “Survival.”

Peter just looks amused as Stiles hops into his seat and makes grabby hands toward him. He gently lifts the sleeping infant out of the sling and hands her over, much to the amazement of the wolves around them. They suddenly understand the sheer amount of destruction Stiles was willing to wreak in the wake of Peter. They would probably do the same, each and every one of them.

“You gonna follow us back?” Stiles asks as he settles Peigi into his chest, rubbing fingers gently across her back and butt to settle her when she stirs.

“Sure, why not,” Jackson’s voice is flat with irony.   


Stiles grins back, unrepentant. “Danny and Lydia are gonna hit you so hard, man.”

“Fuck you very much,” Jackson fires back, but something in his chest loosens at the confirmation that his best friend and the woman he’s loved most of his life are alive. He and Lydia may not be good together as a couple, but she’ll always be his soulmate, even if it’s not the romantic kind.

“That’s my job,” Peter says with an unsettling grin, just to see Jackson shudder in horror at the image that pops into his head.

“I hate you,” he fires back, making Peter laugh.

“Uh, guys,” Tyrone interrupts. “What’s with the chickens?”

He’s peering into the back of the Jeep where a large dog crate is sitting filled with a half dozen, rumpled, put out looking chickens. The rooster appears to be giving its best chicken death gaze to Peter, who glares nastily back at it. Jackson looks from one to the other and guffaws.

“Did - did you get bested by a chicken?” he demands, pleads because it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“It’s evil,” Peter says flatly, and then rounds the Jeep to get in, making everyone laugh in his wake.

*   


“We’re going to need to go on a baby specific run. All the kids at home are potty trained,” Stiles hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of Peigi since she was handed to him. She’s tiny, no more than a couple of months old. He doesn’t have much experience with babies. He isn’t even sure he’s holding her right, but Peter hasn’t said anything, so he must be doing okay.

“We’ll get it all figured out,” Peter says, glancing at Stiles and then looking back at the road. “We’ll have Melissa take a look at her, and then we’ll talk to Mark and Lisa about what all we’ll need to get.”

Stiles nods and finally pulls his eyes away from the sleeping infant, “Are we really going to do this? We aren’t exactly the best choice for parents.”

“Maybe not in the old world, but in this one we give her a marked advantage on survival.”

And that’s really what it boils down to now, isn’t it? Survival. Peter had told him that once, back when all of this was first starting. It’s all about surviving now. They are building a place to live, a place to do more than just survive, but until the wall is finished they are still mostly just surviving.

“I think I already love her,” Stiles decides to say after realizing that he agrees with Peter. The two of them are the most prepared to go through whomever and whatever they have to in order to protect Peigi. Anything more than a zombie, and most of the pack would still hesitate to strike. Not them. Not ever. Not now.

“I know I do,” Peter replies, he’d fallen in love the second she’d reached for his face.

Neither of them stood a chance.

Neither of them mind all that much.

*

There hadn’t been much time to ask questions in the parking lot of the diner in Merriman. Stiles and Peter had just acquired a baby and torn a swathe through the zombie population. The two fireballs Stiles had thrown hadn’t exactly been subtle, they could probably be seen for miles. After a brief explanation from Stiles about scouting for a group of hostile humans they’d had a run in with, they had all agreed that talking could wait.

The thing about being on the road for so long is that they’ve encountered hostile people before. They get it. They’ve had run ins with people who were driven to attack them due to desperation, and they’ve encountered people who have attacked them just simply because they can. In a world where violence is the answer to nearly every problem it becomes the rule of thumb instead of a last resort.

“Do you think the rest of your pack made it?” Julius asks after the first five minutes of following a faded blue Jeep down the road. He, like the rest of them, has heard enough stories about Jackson’s pack to feel like he knows them.

Jackson’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching for a second. “If Stiles survived, he made damn sure Scott did. Scott’s the kind of guy to try to keep everyone alive, so I hope they made it.”

He doesn’t mention that if Stiles and Peter are a thing, then the logical conclusion to come to means that the Sheriff is dead. That it had taken someone (the only person who could, really) with a specific mindset to pull him out of whatever black hole he’d fallen into when it happened. Stiles is markedly changed. Hell, so is Peter. He latches onto the knowledge that Lydia and Danny at least are alive.

“They were so clean,” Margot moans from the back of the Escalade. She’s once again stretched out across their supplies, her feet pressed to the roof of the vehicle, her hands bracing her back. “Do you think that means they’ve got running water?”

Tyrone, who is picking all the raisins out of a granola bar, snorts, “What, you don’t like bathing in freezing rivers? I can’t imagine why.”

Margot shows off her reflexes and flexibility and kicks Tyrone in the head. It isn’t a hard hit because she hadn’t put much momentum into it, but it serves to deliver her message. Jackson and Julius exchange a look that straddles the line between exasperation and amusement. They’ve got a two chocolate bar bet on which one of them will cave first and jump the other.

Stan lets out a chainsaw-like snore. His head is tipped almost all the way back, his knees bumping into Tyrone’s from the angle of his body. The second he realizes they’d basically reached their destination, he’d turned off his situational awareness and conked out in the back seat before anyone realized that they’d lost their usual driver. Another snore erupts from him.

“Oh my god, turn him off,” Margot complains, letting her feet fall.

Tyrone turns, pokes Stan in the side and says (very loudly), “Stan! Turn your head to the side.”

Stan lets out a snuffling grunt and angles himself away from the poking, his head tipping so that it’s leaning against the window instead of the nonexistent headrest it was resting on. (Those had been removed during an incident they’d all agreed never to speak of again. The metal spikes that usually go into the seat back kill zombies just as well as anything else.)

“Do you think they’ll let us be part of the pack?” Margot asks after a few minutes of blessed silence. There’s a vulnerability in her voice that none of them are used to hearing outside of sleepless nights and midnight conversations.

Jackson watches the Beacon Hills city limits sign flash past. “I think you’ve got a better chance than Aiden and Ethan did, and they’re pack.”

“Why would we have a better chance than them?”

“You never tried to kill Scott or anyone he loves,” Jackson replies flatly. That creates a pause because there are certain things that Jackson never told them. He certainly had never told them about the kanima.

“Well hell, if that’s the case we’re shoo-ins,” Tyrone says, sarcasm thick.

“Holy shit,” Julius interrupts. He leans forward to get a better look at the wreckage the Jeep is now maneuvering around.

“Fuck,” Tyrone breathes as Margot’s head pops up to get a look at whatever it is.

It’s like the worst car wreck they’ve ever seen. There are two motorcycles, an overturned SUV, a crushed truck and the remnants of a damaged eighteen wheeler of some kind. They are all burned out, and as they pass the wreckage, they can see a couple of blackened skeletons amongst the wreckage. The semi seems to be the only survivor of the pileup, having left behind only one sideview mirror and the front bumper.

They’ve seen bad accidents since their road trip began but nothing this recent.

“What do you think happened?” Margot whispers.

“I think we’re looking at the result of whatever happened between the pack and those people the guys said they encountered,” Julius says, and the three wolves that aren’t asleep or driving turn in their seats to stare as they move past the wreckage.

“Lookout,” Jackson says, leaning forward in his seat to look up.

They’re rapidly approaching the first few buildings now. When Julius manages to get a look at what he can see, there’s a burned out church tower and a guy standing in the window, waving. They probably wouldn’t have seen him at all if the Jeep hadn’t been there. Whoever the man is, he’s got a high powered rifle tucked in the crook of one arm.

Julius wonders if Stiles and Peter had somehow managed to radio ahead and let the lookout know they were coming, but keeps the thought to himself.

Driving through a city the size of Beacon Hills is strange. It’s not a particularly large town, but it once had over thirty-five thousand residents, so zombies are to be expected. The strange thing is, they see a lot less than they expected to. The road is cleared of debris, and the people who live here obviously spend a lot of time clearing safe routes to and from places. There were zombies here, probably hundreds, but the route they are driving is carefully guarded and cleared regularly.

Then they turn a corner, and it comes into sight.

“Holy fucking shit,” Tyrone breathes as it comes closer and closer. “Is that a fucking  _ wall _ ?”

It is a wall. A huge one, and it’s made almost entirely of crushed cars. It’s five feet deep and twenty feet tall and it stretches for miles beyond what they can see. They’re building a wall, a huge, nearly impossible wall.

When they turn to go past the wall, they see the construction in the works. There’s a group of guys, six or seven of them actively working on the wall. Two of them are bolting steel sheeting into place on the outside of the wall, and a third person follows along, welding the sheets together, making it impossible to climb the wall from the outside. On the other side, there’s a operation of construction that amazes. Two big, yellow Caterpillar construction vehicles of some kind are in use. One is crushing a car, and the other is picking it up and lowering it into place on the wall with the guidance of one man on the ground and one on the wall.

A few miles after they pass the wall, all of them feel a zap go through them. Whatever it is, it wakes Stan with a snort. After that, there are no zombies. They look down side alleys and streets, but there are no zombies to be found.

“Wards,” Jackson says with realization after two miles. “They put up anti-zombie wards.”

Then it hits them, one after the other. They’re  _ safe. _ There’s a  _ wall  _ and magical  _ wards _ and an Alpha and a pack.

The Escalade follows the Jeep into a parking lot, pulling into a space next to it. The five wolves pause to take in what they’re seeing. There are three warehouses, and a lot across the street. It’s got a very large (successful by the look of it) garden growing in it. There’s a small group of kids playing games outside one of the warehouses, and picnic tables set up on one of the parking lot corners.

Peter knocks on Jackson’s window, which gets them moving. They get out of the Escalade, stretching and gathering together to face this new thing. Jackson looks relieved and actually like he might be genuinely happy for once. It helps the rest of them relax.

“Stiles Stilinski is that a baby?” a female voice demands, bringing attention to Stiles who is walking toward one of the warehouses, the baby cradled in his arms. The woman heading toward him is older, but still young and pretty, and she looks both stunned and cross at the same time. She’s definitely a mother.

Stiles beams. “Yes, it is,” he tells her, and then he hands her the baby.

The woman stares at the child in her arms for a moment in shock, and then she softens and looks back up at Stiles. “What happened?”

Peter wraps his arm around Stiles, and the three of them look at the little girl. “We found her and her mother in Merriman when we stopped for gas. Her mother had been bitten and asked us to take her.”

Whoever this woman is, she’s got authority here because both Stiles and Peter (despite the fact that he’s only a few years younger than the woman) are looking at her with identical expressions that plead with her to let them keep the baby. She looks from the baby to Stiles to Peter and back to the baby. “I  _ did not  _ expect my first grandchild to come from the two of you.”

They relax and laugh. Stiles does jazz hands as he says, “Surprise!”

“Jackson?”

Jackson turns around swiftly as everyone’s attention is drawn to the newcomers. There’s a tall, handsome man standing there, looking very surprised. He blinks and then he’s running across the lot at full speed. Jackson braces himself and takes the hit, wrapping his arms just as tightly around the other man.

“Danny,” Jackson chants, clinging to his best friend. “Danny.”

Another man arrives then, this one shorter, with a slightly crooked jaw and a welcoming smile, he claps a hand onto Jackson’s shoulder, not interrupting the hug, and says, “Welcome home, Jacks.”

Jackson pulls away from Danny, but not enough to let go. “Alpha.”

So this is Scott McCall. He’s not particularly intimidating physically. Something in the way he holds himself, however, tells the four wolves clustered together by the bumper of the Escalade that this man has power and ability. He exudes Alpha, but he isn’t trying to dominate.

Jackson turns to his companions, drawing Scott and Danny over to them. “These are my friends,” Jackson says. “I don’t think I’d be here without them.”

Margot snorts, because he  _ wouldn’t  _ have made it out of Boston without her, and steps forward. She offers the Alpha her hand, her eyes flaring bright beta gold. “I’m Margot,” she says.

Scott’s eyes flare red at the knowledge that there are non-pack around him now. He gazes at Margot for a moment, then looks over the the three men standing behind her. In response to the gaze of an Alpha, their eyes all go gold.

“Trust you to bring home a bunch of stray wolves, Jackson,” Stiles says. He, Peter and the woman have come to join them.

“I trust them,” Jackson tells Scott, and then he gives Stiles a look of contempt. “Look who’s talking Stilinski.”

“Baby!” Danny exclaims.

That derails whatever Scott was going to say and he turns to look at the baby in the woman’s arms. “Stiles? What?”

“Congratulations! You’re an uncle!” Stiles crows.

Scott stares, because he hasn’t seen this side of Stiles since his father died. The shadows in his eyes aren’t present as he prompts the woman to lift the little girl up so Scott can see her better. He looks over at Peter and asks, “Are you telling me that you guys went out looking for trouble and brought home a  _ baby _ ?”

“In our defense,” Peter drawls, “we also brought home the chickens Marigold asked for.”

“So, chickens and a baby,” Scott says. “And Jackson and four new packmates. You guys have only been gone two days.”

“We’re efficient.” Peter shrugs.

“Shut up,” Scott fires back. His tone says he hates Peter, but he’s smiling. “And gimmie my niece.”

The woman hands the baby over, amusement on her face, “Watch her head.”

Scott stares down at the child he’s now awkwardly holding. “Mom…”

The woman, now identified as Scott’s mother and the adopted mother of at least Stiles, pats his arm. “I know, Stiles is a dad.”

“Fuck all of you,” Stiles snaps when Scott chuckles and he sweeps forward and removes the baby from Scott’s arms. “Now, I’m going to go give my daughter a bath, and Peter is going to go find some formula for her, and Melissa is gonna come with me.”

“I am?” Melissa asks as Peter nods, presses kisses to both Stiles and the baby’s head and heads back to the Jeep.

“Yes, I want you to look her over. We think she’s okay, but it would be nice to know for sure.”

“I’ll come,” Melissa teases. “But only if you tell me her name and promise that I get to snuggle with her later.”

“Deal,” Stiles says, and they leave.

The four newcomers look around at each other and all of them come to the same conclusion: life in Beacon Hills will never be boring.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it takes a fist fight to make wolves pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some Steter fluff with added baby. And Pack dynamics.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_Twenty-One:_

 

Stiles is sitting in the middle of their bed when Peter returns from his supply run. Scott insists Peter take someone with him, so Mark goes, having three small children allows him some insight into what the baby would need. The sheer amount of stuff needed to keep a baby alive and healthy staggers Peter, but it’s easy to find.

Not many children survived the end of the world, and even fewer babies.

When Peter gets the last of the supplies into their loft, he finds Stiles sitting cross-legged in the middle of their bed, leaning over Peigi and playing with her feet that she keeps kicking up in the air. Stiles has a smile of genuine happiness on his face. In fact, so does Peigi. She’s grinning widely up at Stiles, showing off her gums as she gurgles and laughs at him.

Peter’s heart constricts at the sight.

He must make a noise because Stiles looks up to where he’s standing in the doorway, and his smile changes. It’s the one that only Peter can coax out of him these days. Peter lives for that smile. He has to smile back; he could never deny Stiles anything.

“We’re completely insane for doing this,” Stiles tells him. They both know that it would probably be best to hand Peigi off to someone more capable of handling an infant. Someone less likely to run headfirst into peril at a moment’s notice. Stiles looks back down at Peigi. “I’m already in love.”

Peter enters the room, toeing his shoes off by the door and climbing up onto the bed next to Stiles. As soon as he comes into her view, Peigi looks surprised for a second, and then she grins at him, cooing. He smiles helplessly back as she tries to fit one of her freshly washed feet into her mouth.

“I am too,” Peter says, leaning his shoulder against Stiles’ and brushing a finger across Peigi’s cheek, making her let go of her foot and grab at the digit. As soon as he lets her have it, she shoves it in her mouth and starts sucking. “What did Melissa say?”

“Well, she’s a little older than we thought. About three or four months,” Stiles says watching the expression on Peter’s face soften to a point he’s never seen before. “She’s old enough to mostly be sleeping through the night, and she’s got rolling over down pat, but sitting up on her own is still a little difficult. She can stay there once she’s in position, but getting there’s a hardship.”

Peter chuckles; it’s silent, but Stiles feels it through their touching arms. “Derek hated that. I was pretty young, but I remember the tantrum he would throw when he was this age and he’d tipped over and couldn’t get back up.”

“Oh crap, I forgot that you’ve got baby Derek and Cora stories!”

“Mmm.” Peter leans down and blows a raspberry on Peigi’s belly, making her squeal loudly. When he pulls away he says, “I’ll tell you about his naked phase later. How is she healthwise?”

“A little malnourished.” Stiles reaches out and jiggles one of her feet, garnering her brief attention and a drooly smile. “But that was kind of expected. She’s got a major case of diaper rash, which Lisa swears will clear up with consistent application of a paste made of vaseline and corn starch. She dropped some off a while ago.”

Peter nods. “Talia used to swear by it.”

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. He doesn’t have an opinion because he’s never encountered the problem before. “Basically everyone has stopped by to get a look at her,” he offers instead. “And we’ve got almost a dozen offers to babysit.”

Neither of them is stupid enough to think they can do this on their own. Even though they’re claiming primary responsibility, Peigi will be raised by a village, just like the other kids. She’ll learn to read and write from Finstock, who has taken over the education of the children being the only teacher. She’ll learn to cook at Marigold and Melissa’s sides. Learn about growing things from Olsen. Lydia, Allison and Malia will teach her to be a strong woman.

No, she’ll never be short of love here.

“I’m going to go learn how to make a bottle,” Stiles decides, leaning down to kiss Peigi. Before he climbs off the bed, he kisses Peter too.

“Read the directions,” Peter advises, already scooting himself into the space Stiles just vacated. He lets Peigi grab his forefingers, and he diligently helps her into an upright position. She’s delighted at the change in view and laughs.

*

“Is it weird that I don’t feel weirded out by the idea of Stiles and Peter raising a kid?” Scott wonders out loud.

Allison looks up, eyebrows raised as she watches Scott fumble to take off his shoes. “Not really.”

“Why is it not weird?” Scott asks plaintively, joining her on the couch, stretching across it and setting his head in her lap.

At the kitchen table, Chris snorts, but continues to clean the guns laid out precisely across the wooden surface. Both his daughter and her boyfriend (he’s not kidding himself, he’s basically resigned to it by now) look at him, but he says nothing.

“Well, Stiles has always be the kind of guy to protect what he loves with any means necessary. And Peter is possessive. Stiles is his, and heaven help you if you try to take what’s his. So Peigi being his makes her safe as houses.”

“True.” Scott nods. “They are our heavy hitters.”

Chris snorts again, sets down the barrel he’s cleaning and swivels in his seat to face them, bracing his forearm on the back of his chair, “Those two have their shit together far better than the rest of us. The kid’ll be fine.”

“Dad’s right,” Allison confirms. “Besides, it’s not like we won’t be around to help. There are over thirty people around, ready and willing if they need anything.”

Scott’s forehead crinkles, and Allison can tell that he’s counting in his head. His fingers start to twitch like he wants to start using them to help himself, so she leans down and kisses him gently. When she pulls away, he’s grinning goofily and Chris has turned back to the guns with an eyeroll and a theatrical groan. (He’s her father, he may be resigned, but that doesn’t mean he can’t troll the hell out of them.)

“Don’t worry about Stiles and Peter,” she advises. “They’re well prepared to figure it out. Not to mention that Peter is Derek’s uncle, which means he’s got some experience with kids.”

A look of enlightened horror crosses Scott’s face. “Oh my god, do you think he knows embarrassing stories from when Derek was a kid?”

“I think if you value your life you won’t ask. Derek would kill you and bury you in the wall, never to be found again.”

Scott laughs. “And we all know what a shitty Alpha _he’d_ make.”

Derek’s time as an Alpha is unspoken of. It’s a silent agreement between the people who were there to not talk about it. Derek has long since admitted that he was overwhelmingly underprepared to be an alpha. He’s also the first to tell a person that he doesn’t _want_ to be an Alpha. He prefers standing at Scott’s right shoulder in an advisory capacity.

“He has been very vocal about that, hasn’t he?”

He has, and they’ve all listened.

*

There are a couple of quiet days following the arrival of Jackson and his troupe of traveling werewolves. Well, relative quiet. It’s as quiet as it can get with four strange wolves in the compound, trying to figure out their place in the scheme of things. Scott accepts them, and the acceptance of the Alpha goes a long way to soothing ruffled feathers.

But even though they try, no one gets along with everyone.

The day that Robert punches Stan in the face quickly goes into the annals of pack history. It doesn’t soothe the hostility between the two, but it does ease tensions in general as the wolves that arrived with Jackson realize that they really can be pack if they let themselves become so.

Stan is caustic by nature. He’s the kind of guy to chew on something when he gets his teeth into it. Robert is the kind of man that just doesn’t bullshit. He’s straightforward and has no patience for anyone’s crap. Their personality clash is aided by the fact that while Stan has been a werewolf for over a decade, he’s still in a new place with new people. Stan is the outsider while Robert is the youngest when it comes to life spent as a werewolf, yet he’s held pretty high up because he was Chris’ second.

Aside from Marigold, Tyrone is the only one present when it happens. It’s fairly early in the morning, and the crew has just left for the wall, leaving Marigold to start breakfast for the rest of the compound, accompanied by Tyrone the morning person. He’s too busy trying to flirt an extra serving out of Marigold to notice Robert come in and get himself some coffee, but Tyrone definitely notices Stan.

Stan is not a morning person. He’s perfectly capable of sleeping anywhere and everywhere, but he’s a night owl. He’s bleary and grumpy when he stumbles in after Robert. As soon as he smells actual coffee (and not that instant crap) he’s like a heat-seeking missile. He’s across the room in a flash of wolf speed and going for the pot.

Which would typically be fine, if Robert hadn’t been holding it at the time.

“Oh, shit,” Tyrone mutters to himself as soon as coffee sloshes out of the pot and all over Robert’s front, burning his skin badly enough for his brand new werewolf healing to kick in to heal the scalding. Robert cusses loudly, moving the coffee pot out and away from himself as he sets his partially full cup down and grabs his shirt to pull it away from himself.

Stan follows the pot, and what ensues is an impossible feat of acrobatics followed by a horrifying display of bad balance.

The commotion draws the Beardsleys and Alex O’Leary into the dining hall. Marigold remembers the days of small children who wouldn’t stay in bed past seven a.m. Robin Beardsley is bouncing and bright compared to her father, who looks like a vampire got him in the night. Further evidence to the theory that the only reason children have so much energy is because they suck it out of the adults around them.

But then, Robin is three years old and has no idea of the tension in the room.

And then Robert retaliates. He’s covered in rapidly cooling coffee, and he’s been knocked off his feet by a man who (now that the coffee pot’s been shattered) is now kneeling and reaching for Robert’s mug.

Robert’s been a werewolf for all of three weeks. He loses it. He wolfs out and goes for Stan’s throat.

Tyrone is up and out of his seat in a flash. The door opens again, admitting Finstock and his trio of intrepid teenagers. One of which is the other three week old werewolf. Liam freezes for a moment, and then he’s turning around and darting back the way he came. He may be angry at the world, but he’s not as angry as he was, and he’s also not an idiot.

Tyrone takes an elbow to the face as he gets his arms around Robert’s waist and tries to heave the man away from Stan, who is wolfed out and fighting back. Not surprising considering that hockey is a sport consisting of approximately twenty-five percent sport and seventy-five percent violence.

Bobby Finstock likes a good fight as much as the next man (he did coach lacrosse for a long time), but this isn’t a fight, it’s a brutal knock down between two wolves who have quickly gone from ‘dude-you-spilled-my-coffee’ to ‘I’m-going-to-kill-you’ in about five seconds. He herds his own charges over to Lisa, who has gathered the children to her as Mark and Alex try to get the fight stopped.

“Don’t!” Tyrone yells as he’s clocked in the head again and knocked out of the fighting for a second. He turns bright golden eyes on the three men hovering close by. “You don’t have a chance here.”

The door to the warehouse slams open with a crash, and Scott, Jackson, Julius and Peter arrive. Julius and Jackson go for Stan immediately, both of them knowing just what Stan is willing to do to save himself. Peter, who has contained himself in most non-pack presences until now, reveals just why Scott never thinks twice about sending him out on his own with Stiles. His eyes go wolf blue and he hauls Robert up and out of the fray on his own with a snarl that rattles into Robert, making him freeze and submit instantly.

Scott gets right in Stan’s face and roars an Alpha roar in his face, eyes red, making all three of the struggling wolves freeze in place. Scott follows it up with a bass growl that makes Jamie Beardsley start crying into his mother’s shirt.

“What the hell is going on?” Scott asks, voice level and not even a single decibel above normal.

Stan keeps mulishly silent, prompting Jackson to shake him as Julius moves over to where Tyrone is sitting with his head tilted back to try to stop the flow of blood from his nose. Julius examines it for a second, and then sets his brother’s nose quickly, so that his wolf healing doesn’t heal it crooked.

Scott’s eyes narrow at Stan’s silence, and his gaze flickers over to Robert. Robert’s had time to get to know his Alpha over the last three weeks. He’s got no problem telling him exactly what happened.

“I’m going to say this once,” Scott says, raising his voice as several other people enter the room, and Peter stalks around to stand at Scott’s left shoulder. _“There will be no infighting here._ If you can’t handle that, then get gone before I make you. This pack is a _family_ first, and a hierarchy second, but that doesn’t mean you can attack a newly made wolf because he’s got something you want. It also doesn’t mean you can try to kill a guy for something stupid. Got it?”

“Got it,” Robert says instantly. He’s calmed in the presence of Peter and his alpha. He’s old enough to be Scott’s father, but it doesn’t matter to the marine. Scott saved his life, proved that he is willing to do whatever it takes to protect the people here. He’s earned both his loyalty and respect.

Stan looks mutinous for a moment, remaining mulishly silent. At Scott’s shoulder, Peter wolfs out with a growl. He’s been through too much trauma in his life to have a regular beta wolf face. His face is harsher, more ridged and changed than usual; his skin takes on a grayish tinge and he looks prepared to rip Stan limb from limb at a glance.

The reinforcement of Scott’s word works. Stan’s shoulders slump, and he tells the floor, “I got it.”

The incident serves to break the silent standoff between the new wolves and the pack. Cora and Margot bond over how stupid men are, and she gets drawn into the circle of friends that also include Lydia, Allison and Malia.

Tyrone makes himself a nuisance as soon as he learns about the fact that Jordan is… whatever he is. He likes the twins, and the watchdogs are fun to be around, but Jordan is fascinating. Jordan has no idea what he is, but he’s seeing Cora (who is kind of terrifying) and he’s learned how to lob fireballs at things since the incident at the hospital.

Jordan sets him on fire the first time he loses patience. After that, it’s like a game of flammable chicken. Tyrone loves it.

Julius just sighs and buries himself in Peter’s books. He appreciates the pack loremaster’s ability to research, as well as his ability to just leave things alone and let Julius exist in his space. Peter’s space is also Stiles’ space, so Julius gets to know the Spark rather quickly. The first time Stiles foists Peigi into Julius’ arms so that he can cast a protective circle to create more of the watch stones they use for their early warning system and tells Peigi to be good for Uncle Julius, Julius feels a rush of pride at the acceptance.

Something about Stiles and Peter’s acceptance of his presence in their tightly knit family seems more profound somehow.

He holds the baby as she peers curiously up at him and blows spit bubbles and watches Stiles do magic as Peter paces around on the other side of the room with a book in his arms, and Julius feels quietly content that he and his brother have found themselves a pack and a home. He looks down at Peigi, uses the burp cloth he’s been handed to wipe away the drool, and smiles at her. She smiles back, waving a fist in the air.

“We’re pretty damn lucky Peigi,” Julius tells her softly. He doesn’t bother trying not to be overheard. Stiles is ten feet away and Peter has werewolf hearing. Peigi just laughs at him and gets him in the chin with her drool covered fist.

Death, mayhem and loss aside, they’re pretty lucky to be safe and whole and where they are.

“You know you’re on the list of babysitter’s now right?” Stiles asks, interrupting Julius’ thoughts. When he looks up, Stiles and Peter are watching him and their daughter. Stiles is smiling a little, and Peter’s eyes are glowing. “She likes you,” Stiles finishes.

Julius doesn’t hesitate. “I like her. I’ll babysit anytime. She and I can terrorize Tyrone, he’s terrified of babies.”

Peter snorts, “Unsurprising.”

For a man in his mid-twenties, Tyrone Clark is surprisingly juvenile. Julius just smirks at the idea that even after the end of the world, his brother is still himself, annoying traits and all. Tyrone is a mix of creative and adrenaline junkie, which makes him a shade of crazy that’s very companionable (if annoying) and unpredictable.

Julius is set. He’s a stone in Tyrone’s river, and for once, he isn’t overshadowed by his louder brother. He’s privileged to be accepted into the little world Peter and Stiles have created amid the chaos. He knows he’s welcome here.

He sets Peigi on his knees and lets her latch onto his fingers. He pulls her up into a sitting position, and she grins gummily at one of her fathers. Stiles grins back and winks, sending little sparks of magic dancing around himself. She squeals and wriggles her entire body with joy at the sight.

“Stiles,” Peter says, voice exasperated but his face fond. “Don’t over excite her or she won’t sleep.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, abandons his project and crawls across the floor to where Peigi is sitting on Julius’ lap. Stiles makes a face at her, and she reaches for him. “Daddy’s a spoilsport, pumpkin,” Stiles tells her and takes her from Julius. He stands up. “I think we need to make Daddy give you a bath.”

Peter snorts, but doesn’t resist when Stiles hands him the infant. “You just don’t want to change her diaper.”

“Not even a little bit,” Stiles replies, unrepentant.

This time, it’s Julius that snorts.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rings and Accidents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least no one died this time.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-two: _

 

As the end of September brings with it a lot of rain and the settling in of fall, Scott pulls Stiles off to the side one morning, glancing around furtively and looking like he used to in freshman year, before he got bitten and their world turned into one of monsters. Stiles stares, with his eyebrows up, as Scott paces a small circle in front of him.

“You know I’m containing a joke about dogs and walking in circles, right?” Stiles asks in order to cut through Scott’s haze of panic.

Scott stops moving, looks over at Stiles and says, “I’m going to propose to Allison.”

Stiles blinks. “Are you guys even officially together?”

Scott thinks about it for a minute. “Well, we never really talked about it, but we’ve basically moved in together.”

“Okaaay…”

“I love her, Stiles.”

“Believe me, I know,” Stiles responds flatly, thinking about the several awkward weeks he spent relaying love messages between the pair like a carrier pigeon in sophomore year. “So, marriage, huh?”

“Yeah,” Scott nods, mostly to himself. “Hey, why aren’t you and Peter talking about marriage.”

“Because we’re perfectly fine not being married,” Stiles replies. “It’s not like either of us is going anywhere. We’re each other’s anchors.”

“Right. Yeah, okay.”

“Scott, peanut butter to my jelly.” Stiles sets both hands on Scott’s shoulders and shakes him a little. “Tell me what you want.”

“Will you go with me to pick out a ring?”

“You want to go ring shopping?”

“Yes.”

“During the zombie apocalypse?”

“Yes.”

“Well alright then, let me just go tell Peter, meet me at the Jeep in ten.”

Scott watches his best friend walk away with a grin. That’s the thing about Scott and Stiles; they’re always dragging each other out to do crazy things, but usually they can get out of it. Mostly because the other one is there to help. Scott inhales deeply and then turns around to go get his gear.

*

Derek wipes the sweat off his brow and finishes off his bottle of water. He’s sitting in the shade provided by the tow truck he’s been using to haul cars to the wall all morning. Looking up at the monstrosity he’s creating, he feels a sense of accomplishment.

This… this is something good. This isn’t running for his life (or killing for it). This isn’t death and destruction and chaos. This is life. This is protecting what he can, in a practical way that will stand against virtually anything. This wall means that his family won’t have to look over their shoulders for dead things lurching out of the dark.

This wall means he’ll be granted just a small measure of peace.

He’ll never admit it out loud. Never apologize. He knows though. Knows that most of the events that have happened in the last fifteen years are all his fault. If he hadn’t been so desperate, going to Ennis about Paige. If only he hadn’t let Peter get into his head when he  _ knew  _ his uncle liked to play games with people. If only he hadn’t let Kate manipulate him.

It’s his fault his family had been killed. His fault that Peter had slowly lost his mind, over years in a hospital, abandoned by his pack. His fault that Jackson had rampaged as the kanima because it was his bite that had turned him. It was his fault Erica and Boyd… Well, it was all his fault.

The others don’t blame him for all of it. He’s been told that the events that had occurred weren’t his fault. That Kate would have just found another target. That a pair of teenaged kids had done the only thing they could by leaving. That it hadn’t been his actions that had taken Erica and Boyd.

He still feels the guilt though. It’s hard not to.

So he’s building a wall to protect whoever’s left. He can’t be responsible for more death, so he’s helping to build the future.

It feels good, deep inside him. Soothes the guilty ache because he’s not just sitting in his loft brooding. He’s actively doing something about the threat they’re under. He’s building them a shield. A massive, impenetrable shield.

Derek looks up at the structure, letting his eyes scan along it for as far as they can before corners and distance hide it. They’re nearly at the halfway point now. He’s very proud of how quickly the work is going. It’s only been about four months since the inception of the wall, and through revisions and expanding the circumference, they’re still going really fast.

They’ll start building the gate over Main Street in a couple of days. It will be reinforced with a guard tower and steel framing and will be the only weak point in the wall, as well as the farthest from the compound. Once they finish the gate, they’ll be halfway done.

Speed is aided by the fact that his crew consists half of werewolves who have the strength and stamina to work harder and faster than most, and half of men with the motivation to keep up. None of them have complained over the rate or hours they’re working. They all know that walls mean safety and survival.

His contemplation shatters when the screeching whine of overexerted metal reaches his ears. He’s on his feet in a flash, looking for the source. A metallic snap rings out and a yell follows, incoherent over the rushing in his ears as he watches the cables on the crane snap and a three ton vehicle fall abruptly onto the wall.

Someone screams as the flattened SUV balances awkwardly on the top of the wall for a couple of seconds, and then with a screech and a spray of sparks, it flips end over as it falls over the outside of the wall.

“Ethan!” someone yells, and Derek knows that it must be Aiden.

“Turn that thing off!” Derek yells at Riley in the crane, who is trying desperately to get the swinging cable and hook under control. The young man turns the engine off, quieting the area abruptly, leaving the broken cable to slowly swing to a stop.

Oscar and Blake are on top of the wall. Oscar’s got Blake’s shirt pressed to his bleeding head. He’d had to dive out of the way of the SUV when the cable broke. The man is intact and very, very lucky that he hadn’t been crushed. When Derek looks at them, Blake waves his hand to indicate that he’s got Oscar.

The sight he comes to on the other side of the wall is a nightmare. Cora is yelling something about leverage, as she and Ethan strain to keep the SUV from falling anymore. What used to be the front bumper of the car is balanced precariously on top of a stack of steel sheeting. Ethan has blood across one arm and his face in a showing of epic road rash. Jonah is kneeling down next to a prone figure that is pressed up against the sheeting.

“What do we need?” Derek demands as soon as he’s within earshot.

“We need the crane,” Jonah rasps as he tightens his belt around Aiden’s upper arm. His arm is pinned between the steel and the SUV. It’s completely crushed, but if they can get it out, his werewolf healing should be able to take care of the damage. He’s white with pain and muttering for his brother.

Derek kneels next to Aiden, sliding his hand along the back of his neck and draining as much of the pain as he can. A look around reveals Cora and Ethan braced against the upended vehicle to keep it from tipping and falling to completely crush Aiden flat. 

“Hey,” Derek says, doing his best to keep his voice calm, “It’s okay. Ethan’s fine.”

“He pushed me out of the way,” Ethan grunts out, turning a little to brace his entire back against the six thousand pounds trying to kill his brother.

“You hear him?” Derek asks Aiden, “He’s right here. You saved him.”

Jordan appears at a dead run. He’s got his axe and some steel rebar with him. He examines the situation for a second and then vanishes to the other side of the vehicle, ducking under the place where it’s flush against the wall. When he reappears, his face is grim.

“We can’t push it toward the wall, there’s only about two feet of clearance.”

“What about to one side?” Derek asks.

“Not to the right,” Blake’s voice calls down from above. “It’ll hit the cab of the truck and fall toward you anyway.”

“What about left?” Jordan calls back up. Blake’s got a good perspective of the problem from above.

“Might do,” Blake says after looking it over. “Best bet would be getting another crane in here.”

Derek exchanges a grim look with Jonah, who can see what Derek can. Aiden is bleeding profusely, and Cora and Ethan are straining heavily under the weight of the car. “The only other crane capable of lifting this much weight is on the other side of town. Down by city hall.”

Jordan meets his gaze grimly. The area around city hall is overrun. There’s no way in to get the crane even if they could get there and back before Aiden bled out.

Aiden is barely conscious, but he’s cognizant enough to realize that he’s about to die. He reaches back to Derek, who leans in close so that the other wolf can see him as Derek continues to hold him steady and drain as much of the pain as he can. Aiden’s eyes are stark and determined in his paper white face. “Cut it off.”

Riley clatters around the corner, rambling about how he’s sorry. Derek snaps at him, “Stop! This isn’t your fault, you didn’t cut the damn cable.” Riley’s mouth snaps shut as he stares at the man that saved his life only a few weeks ago (and tried to save his sister). Derek makes sure he’s got his undivided attention before he says, “I need you to get the radio. You tell Melissa we’re coming in with two wounded. One is a blow to the head and the other is a crushing injury to the arm. Then I want you to get the truck over here.”

“Got it,” Riley says, and darts off.

“Derek,” Aiden wheezes, digging claws into Derek’s arm. Derek braces himself against Aiden’s back and lifts the other wolf a little, removing the strain from Aiden’s shoulder as the entire arm lines up. “Derek, cut it off. It’s the only way.”

“Aid, no!” Ethan snaps, his eyes flashing as he looks down at his twin brother. Aiden looks up at him, and whatever Ethan sees in that gaze makes him press his lips together.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks.

Aiden looks back at him. “I know I don’t want to die.”

Derek looks from Aiden’s white face and his pleading, pained blue eyes to the crushed arm pinned under six thousand pounds of car. It might already be too late for even werewolf healing to save it.

“Jordan.”

Jordan stops wedging a piece of rebar under one side of the bumper to use as leverage to tip the car. He crouches down next to Derek. Jonah has taken off his overshirt and is wrapping it around what he can.

“Jordan, you’re going to have to take the arm,” Derek says, voice surprisingly even.

Jordan Parrish has seen some of the worst things in the world. He’d been in the army before he joined the Sheriff's Department. He’d done two tours and seen combat. He recognizes the grimness on Derek’s face and the determination on Aiden’s. He doesn’t say anything, but he rises and reaches for the fire axe that has become his weapon of choice.

Jonah makes sure the tourniquet is as tight as he can manage, and then he gets out of the way.

Jordan stands, braces his legs and lines up the first swing, face grim.

Derek moves so that he’s squatting behind Aiden, bracing both arms around his chest. “As soon as I move, get out of the way and let the damn thing fall.”

He gets grunts of agreement, and Jordan brings the axe back for the first swing. Aiden howls in pain, and with a spray of blood, the axe swings and comes back down. Derek feels the tension give and immediately drags Aiden’s now unconscious form backward. The other three in range leap out of the way.

The SUV teeters for a precarious moment, and then with an earth shattering thud, it hits the ground right where Aiden and Derek had been mere seconds before.

*

“Do you think this is weird?”

Stiles finishes popping the lock on the door of the jewelry store. “Not really. It’s maybe one of the most normal things that’s happened recently.”

“You guys adopted a kid, that’s pretty normal,” Scott replies as he muscles the door open, and the pair slip inside.

Stiles snorts because he and Peter are far from normal. “Scott, if Peter and I are your yardstick for normal, you’ve got bigger problems than whether or not Allison is crazy enough to say yes.”

It’s dark inside the jewelry store, so as soon as the door is secure behind them, Stiles clicks on his flashlight to get a look around in the dark corners where the light coming in through the windows doesn’t quite reach. They do a quick sweep of the store, which is thankfully empty. Stiles sets his flashlight on its end on one counter, so that the circle of light points at the ceiling.

“What’s really bothering you?” he asks as he peers into a jewelry case filled with pendants.

Scott doesn’t say anything as he stares into the jewelry cases looking at the different rings. When Stiles turns to look at him, he’s biting his lip with his eyebrows furrowed and a vaguely constipated look on his face.

Stiles heaves a sigh and walks across the room to set his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Look, I get it, the world is pretty much screwed and everything is different. Most of it’s bad, but I guess that means we gotta grab the happiness we can.”

Scott eyes him sideways, raising his eyebrows. “You guess?”   


Stiles gives him this hollow, empty sort of look. It’s disconcerting to see, and Scott is struck by the realization that Stiles doesn’t wear that expression very often anymore. He’s different, the end of the world changed him, but in the end he’s still Stiles… And if Stiles can still be Stiles, then maybe Scott can still be Scott in spite of everything.

“Pick a ring,” Stiles says softly. “Lydia told me she’s a size seven.”

Scott takes a deep breath and turns back to the rings.

*

The back of the truck is covered in red. There’s a dull sort of distance throbbing inside Derek’s skull as he sits on the curb outside the compound. The floor and back seat of the truck are saturated enough that it’s dripping onto the pavement. He looks down at his hands, vaguely noting that under the crust of drying, tacky blood, they’re shaking.

Lydia had screamed for Aiden.

Lydia had screamed for the man that holds her pieces together. Screamed for the one person who makes it possible for her to function outside the magnified wards imbued in the walls of the pack lofts. Aiden makes it so that she can be outside again, without strangers blasting her mind. Stiles is a fantastic ward builder, and the grounds around the compound are safe, but he can’t undo damage already done.

Lydia had been subjected to weeks of torture, as she felt the world around her dying violently and then the abrupt wrongness as they came back. She’s still Lydia, still strong, still tenacious and unyielding, but she has changed.

Lydia, who had looked from Aiden, with one less arm and unconscious as he was carried past her, to Derek who was covered in blood, and hugged him because he’d saved him.

_ “Might’ve been better to let him die.” _

It’s said softly enough that it isn’t meant to be heard, but Derek hears it. In his heightened state of awareness, he hears the comment, and just like that the world crashes back down in around him. His head snaps up, eyes going from green to blue in a fraction of a second as they light upon the culprit. His fangs drop, and the snarl that rips out of his throat is guttural and absolutely  _ menacing _ .

Everyone milling about the parking lot freezes in reaction. The humans all feel that thrill of adrenaline as flight or flight begins to kick in at the sound of a large predator among them. The wolves all feel themselves fighting the shift at the threat in that sound. When Derek stands, blood covered and  _ pissed off _ , several people back away.

When Derek stalks forward, several people back away. Tyrone backs into the van behind him, suddenly realizing that he’s got all of Derek’s not inconsiderable attention. “Shit,” he breathes out in the fraction of a second before Derek’s fist slams into his face.

He’d heard him.

*

The radio crackles, making Stiles’ head come up. He blinks blearily, and then reaches for the little black box when the static starts up again. Scott has been debating between two different rings for nearly twenty minutes, and Stiles is defensively falling asleep due to boredom.

“This is Stiles, I didn’t get that last,” he says into the radio as he stands up. He takes a few steps away from the sorry sight Scott makes as he stares at the two rings, trying to get a better signal as he moves toward the door.

_ “...need… come back…. accident…” _

The voice on the other end of the line is staticky and unclear. Stiles exits the store, “Say again?”

This time when the voice comes across, it’s clearly, and very much Mason. _ “You guys need to come back. There was an accident on the wall and there’s a couple very angry werewolves here.” _

Angry werewolves? Accidents happened all the time, that was life. They didn’t usually require the recall of the Alpha though. If there were pissed off wolves involved, whatever had happened must have left someone either severely injured or severely dead.

“Got it, we’re on our way,” Stiles says, and then clips the radio to his belt and ducks back into the store. “Scott!”

“I know,” Scott’s voice says, shoulders hunched around his ears, “I’m taking too much time and I should just pick one already.”

“Grab both of them,” Stiles orders, the tone of his voice drawing Scott’s attention. “You can pick one later, we gotta go.”

“What happened?” Scott demands even as he pockets both rings and reaches for his rifle.

“There was an accident on the wall,” Stiles tells him as they jog out of the store and back down the street toward the compound. “I don’t know how bad, but there are a few brassed off wolves to deal with.”

“Perfect, just what we needed.”

The two continue to run. The store is only a little over a mile from the compound, so they had walked. After about fifteen minutes of steady jogging, Stiles says, “You know, you could just propose with both rings and let her pick the one she likes the most. It’s not like you had to pay for it.”

*

Allison enters the room as quietly as she can. She’s carrying a glass of water and a couple of pills in her hand as she moves over to the redhead seated by the bed. Lydia hasn’t moved since Melissa had let her into the room six hours ago. Her gaze is riveted on the rise and fall of Aiden’s chest as he breathes.

“How is he?” Allison whispers.

“Alive,” Lydia whispers back, and she takes the pills and water when they’re offered.

Allison weaves her fingers through Lydia’s hair, making her sigh and lean into Allison’s side. Allison doesn’t mind. Lydia is her best friend, and seeing her changed like this, seeing her in so much pain makes her heart ache.

The pair of them watch Aiden sleep for a while. Both of them grateful that he’s alive, though for different reasons. His werewolf healing has kicked in now, though the trauma will keep him in bed for a couple of days. It can’t heal lost limbs however, so Aiden’s got a long road ahead as he relearns how to live life with only one arm.

Allison lets her hand fall so that her arm is wrapped around Lydia’s shoulders. “You didn’t lose him.”

“I did,” Lydia says. “I heard it. I felt him get crushed by that car. For me he was gone, and then there they were screaming into the parking lot and yelling for Melissa. I never imagined -” here she heaves a heavy sigh. She’s tried to prevent the deaths she’s felt before with very little success. The fact that Aiden is somehow still alive despite the fact that she felt it is a miracle.

“How’s your head?” Allison asks in lieu of addressing Lydia’s unfinished statement.

“The painkillers are kicking in.”

“You want me to bring dinner by?”

“Please. Would you get Stiles?”

“Sure.”

The friendship Lydia and Stiles share is convoluted and a little confusing to people who weren’t around to watch it come about. Stiles had abandoned his ten year plan to make her fall in love with him fairly early on. Without that kind of pressure (and coupled with all the mortal peril) Lydia had felt able to let down her guard and just be a friend. The bond they share is rooted deeply in the supernatural, but they’ve found other common ground as well. Allison doesn’t pretend to understand their connection; she just goes to get him.

When Stiles slips into the infirmary, he doesn’t speak. A year ago he’d have been cracking an inappropriately timed joke in an effort to make Lydia smile. Now though, he’s too different to ever attempt to lighten another’s grief; they have to do it largely on their own.

He may not say anything, but he does wrap Lydia up in his arms in the same comforting manner she had done for him when his father had died. He holds her until she falls asleep, and then he carefully transfers her into the one other bed in the room.

And then he settles in to sit vigil for both of the room’s occupants.

*

“We can’t stop building,” Derek mutters.

“No,” Scott replies. “But we can take a few days to process the shock.”

“I knew it was going to be a dangerous project,” Derek retorts, voice biting.

Scott doesn’t blame him for his defensiveness, but he’s also far past the point of being willing to take Derek’s hostility sitting down. “Yeah, no,” Scott says. “You don’t get to do that. It was an accident. Accidents happen. It could have just as easily been Ethan, or one of the humans or no one at all.”

Derek sets his head in his hands, shaking his head. “I know. I know that.”

“Derek,” Scott says carefully, “you and Jordan did the right thing. You did what he wanted you to do.”

“I don’t think I can forgive myself for it.”

“So don’t. Use it to motivate you to finish what you started. Build that wall, protect our home, and give it the old FU after,” Scott advises. “I’ll talk to the Jackson Five and see if they’ll be willing to lend a hand.”

Derek’s shoulders shake in a silent laugh and he looks up at Scott. “I don’t think they’ll be interested after the parking lot.”

“ _ I  _ think Tyrone’s feeling like he deserved it.”

Neither of them comment on the fact that as soon as Derek hand been pulled off of Tyrone, Jackson taken his turn and ripped the other man a new one.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The town is attacked, and a strange transformation takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now we all know that the one encounter with hostile humans wasn't gonna be the only one.  
> As for the transformation, I have no excuse except that I wanted to.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-Three: _

 

Aiden recovers enough to be let out of the infirmary, but not enough to be of much use to anyone. He has too much to relearn, with only one arm, including things like standing up and keeping his balance. It will be some time before he feels confident enough for hard work.

Scott proposes, mostly by accident, because Allison finds the rings. Luckily for him, she loves him, so she says yes. Chris manages to restrain himself and only threatens to maim him a little if he ever hurts his little girl. Scott calls it a win.

Construction on the gate begins in earnest, Stiles begins to prepare to recast the wards so that they extend to the wall. Danny and Frank begin the painstaking process of mapping out where the new perimeter for the early warning system will go. Both sides of the process will take months to prepare for. Meanwhile, construction continues.

As October settles in around Beacon Hills, the weather turns in earnest. What was once desolate and hot is now desolate, rainy and cold. Several teams go out looking for winter clothes, and construction restarts on the wall. The Clark brothers replace the twins on the crew, and both Derek and Tyrone decide to let bygones be bygones.

Nate shifts in his seat. The woven fabric squeaks against the metal of the frame in protest. He’s not surprised at how uncomfortable this chair has become after an entire summer on the roof of a CVS, being abused by both the sun and people. At least they’ve managed to rig up a piece of canvas to keep the rain off.

The sky overhead is leaden and gray, and the only sounds to be heard are Don’s soft whistling snore and the patter of rain on the canvas. Nate likes days like this. The air is cool and smells of water and pine instead of decay. It’s almost enough to forget that the world ended. Almost.

Off in the distance, a movement catches Nate’s eye, making him sit up with another squeal of protesting lawn chair. He squints against the rain and peers out at the highway. It takes a few moments of searching, but then he sees it.

“Shit,” he mutters, grabbing for the binoculars and kicking at Don’s feet to wake him. His cousin snorts awake, but thankfully doesn’t jolt upward in surprise. He looks around blearily for a second, until he catches sight of Nate and the way he’s crouched at the edge of the roof. Don ignores the rain to follow Nate and try to see whatever he’s looking at.

“What is it?”

“Cars,” Nate mutters in reply. “Five or six maybe. That lead one…”

Don takes the binoculars and looks out toward where Nate is pointing. “That looks like one of the cars that chased us into town.”

“I was afraid you were gonna say that,” Nate says, and then turns to creep across the roof to where the radio is perched.

Don turns all of his attention to the approaching vehicles, but before he can settle the binoculars on their target, something else catches his eyes. He refocuses the lenses, and what he sees makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Down on the street, about four blocks away from the CVS they use to keep watch, a group of men is darting around the corner.

And they’re headed straight for the lookout.

“Nate!” Don hisses, unwilling to take his eyes off the approaching group of men. “Nate!”

Nate crouch runs back over, radio held up and his jacket up over his head to protect the device a little. “Yeah,” he’s saying, “it’s five or six vehicles, and the one in front is one of the cars from the attack in June.”

Don hits him on the arm several times, making him switch with him so that he can confirm what he’s seeing as Jonah’s crackly voice comes over the line,  _ “Everyone’s gearing up, the construction crew is closer so we’re sending them now.” _

“Great,” Don replies. “Now we just have to fend off a half dozen heavily armed foot soldiers.”

_ “Foot -” _ the radio hisses and a different one comes on the line. It’s Stiles.  _ “We’re two miles from your location, we’ll be there in five minutes.” _

There’s no point in asking who ‘we’ is. Don heads back to their little covered shelter to collect their rifles. Nate takes his when it’s offered, and now Don can see the men without the binoculars. He brings his rifle up to his shoulder, using the edge of the roof to steady it as he takes aim, flicking the safety off.

The cars in the distance are still coming at a rapid pace.

“I can’t get a good line of sight on any of them,” Don mutters. “At least, not long enough to get a shot off.”

“It’ll take them a lot to get up here,” Nate mutters back. Neither man is operating under the illusion that these guys weren’t there to take them out. Whoever these guys are, they obviously know where the lookout is.

“Stiles and Peter are five minutes out,” Don offers.

The grin that crosses Nate’s face is bloodthirsty. “Good.”

Both cousins know what Stiles and Peter are capable of. They just have to hold out until they arrive. The wolves may all be heavy hitters, but Peter is a powerhouse that hits like a semi on his own, and Stiles is missile strike.

“You ready for this?” Nate asks as their attackers round the corner of the building kitty corner to the CVS.

“Bring it on,” Don murmurs, and fires.

*

The jeep careens around the corner, sending up a spray of water that obscures the view from the windshield for a moment. It’s not raining hard enough for the sound of gunshots to be lost in it. As soon as the wipers get rid of the excess water, the pair in the vehicle get their first view of the chaos on the street.

There are zombies and bodies everywhere. Above the street, on the roof of the CVS, a muzzle flash can be seen as one of the two watchdogs fires into the fray below. There is a group of about six guys fighting off a horde of zombies as they try to make it to the entrance of the pharmacy.

Stiles hits the brakes, swerving the jeep to the curb behind a van with a news station logo on the side. He reaches for his bag, but Peter’s already got the ink and brush out, ready for Stiles to paint a few runes up his arms.

“Remind me to rescue a tattoo artist,” Stiles grumbles, then stuffs things away, shoulders the bag and steps out into the rain with his bat trailing behind him.

“Let’s get up there,” Peter replies when he comes up on Stiles’ shoulder. “Derek and the crew will be here shortly, and that’ll even this fight out when those cars arrive.”

“Right, quick and quiet,” Stiles replies, and then swings at a zombie when it shuffles too close to him for his comfort.

Peter’s claws come out as he snatches the hair of another zombie that decides that Stiles looks tasty. He makes short work of it as he follows Stiles in a dash across the road, just as the first car appears down the street.

Another high powered shot rings out above the snarling and grunting of the dead, and the zombie directly in front of Stiles jerks and falls limp. Stiles doesn’t even acknowledge the help as he and Peter hit the side of the horde and begin to cut a swathe through it, toward the door that the group of invaders is trying to reach as well.

This is obviously not going how they’d thought it would.

They keep the street around the guard posts relatively clear of zombie activity, but that relies mostly on stealth and no unnecessary risks.

Peter hits the sidewalk in front of the door at the same time as one of the men. He has no compunction against dodging the man’s swing and going at him with fangs and claws out. His survival and the survival of his mate are paramount; he doesn’t care how much he might get yelled at about killing a human later. He rips the man’s throat out with his teeth and tosses his body into the fray of zombies.

The cars coming at them get into range then, bullets screaming into the rain and cutting through the zombies. The dead are starting to thin now. The wave starting to slow a bit as the original convergence of dead things is dealt with.

Stiles backs up next to Peter, sparks crackling around his fists as the first car comes to a halt, wheels squealing over the wet pavement. He punches one of the foot soldiers in the face, his fists heated enough to leave scorch marks as he does it. Above them, one of the Brown boys leans over the edge of the roof and fires almost straight down, dealing the burned assailant a death blow.

Down at the other end of the street, the tow truck and Derek’s big battering ram of a semi haul ass around the corner. Behind them the door of the CVS opens, and Don Brown uses the butt of his rifle to smack a zombie out of the way. Stiles and Peter both back toward it.

And then Stiles stops moving.

The sounds of the rain, of the shouting and the moaning and gunfire all fade away as Peter watches Stiles jerk in place, look down in surprise and then crumple. The magic fades from his hands as Peter dives forward, trying to reach him as red blooms across the front of his shirt.

The scent of warm copper fills the air, and Peter knows that it’s the scent of Stiles’ blood. There’s a rushing sound in his ears as Nate fires into the zombies to keep them off of Stiles as Peter tries to reach him. The loud crunch of metal sounds like thunder in the street as Derek’s semi rams straight into the lead vehicle, crunching it up like an accordion.

The rushing in his ears gets louder. He can’t reach - he has to reach.

Peter throws back his head and  _ howls. _

*

“Brace yourself,” Derek orders his passengers as he hits the gas against. With a lurch, the rock hauler speeds up. He doesn’t bother hitting the brake, he just allows momentum to drive the semi straight into the truck leading the convoy of attackers.

With a loud boom and the screech of twisting metal, the semi comes to a halt. The much smaller truck folds up like origami paper between the semi and the truck behind it.

Before Derek or any of the others can get out of the truck and join the fray, a howl echoes above the noise and confusion. It sends a shiver down the spines of everyone present, and both Derek and Jackson are reminded of a night a long time ago when they’d heard a howl like that for the last time.

That night had been chaos too, but it had been fire and not rain that had brought doom.

Derek has to use werewolf strength to force open his door, but the moment he does he’s stepping out and using the higher perch to get a look around.

“Fuck,” Jackson breathes behind him, his eyes riveted on the sight as well.

About fifty feet away in front of the CVS is Peter, only it’s not  _ just  _ Peter. He’s hunched over as if he’s in pain, but his face is laced with fury. As they watch, his body contorts, shifts, and with a series of uncomfortable cracking sounds, Peter comes down on all four paws. He’s gigantic and black, snarling with teeth like knives.

The only difference between his form now and the form he wore the night Derek killed him are his eyes. An icy fire of blue instead of the burning ruby Derek remembers from that night.

“Oh my god,” Julius mutters. “I didn’t know we could do that.”

“We can’t,” Derek growls, and hops down onto the pavement.

The moment of shock seems to clear, because Peter throws his head back and lets out a thunderous howl. He’s crouched over a crumpled figure, and dread fills Derek because he can’t see Stiles, so that figure can only be their Spark.

“We have to take care of this right now!” Jackson yells, wolfing out and throwing himself at the nearest body. 

“Don’t get near Peter!” Derek advises the two wolves that came with him, and then he jumps into the fray as well, being careful to stay away from the monstrous wolf currently shredding anything and everyone that comes too close.

*

They’d had no idea what they were walking into. Weeks of observation had not prepared them for the force they were facing. Observation had revealed only two guard posts for the entire city. There hadn’t been many comings and going around the outskirts, and so two forays into Beacon Hills itself had been made. They’d had a good idea of what to expect on the zombie side of things, but no one had been able to get close enough to where they knew the people here were living. Something was keeping them out, and no one was willing to risk trying to get past that wall.

Oh, god, that wall.

They’d have been content to just raid sections of the city for supplies if it wasn’t for that wall. Maybe take a little revenge for the losses they’d suffered that day on the highway. But that wall changed things. That wall meant the people who lived here were organized enough to enact a plan for long term survival. It meant they had supplies.

It also meant that it would be nigh on impossible to take the town once that wall was complete.

That wall also made it harder to observe the comings and goings of the little community that had been built. They’d thought they were dealing with maybe twenty people. They had the numbers to take them out just fine if they maintained the element of surprise and got the guard on the freeway before he could raise the alarm.

They’d been wrong. They’d been so, so very wrong.

The alarm had been raised so quickly, they had to have radios; and whoever was up on the pharmacy roof was a crack shot and had no compunction about keeping quiet so as not to draw the dead in that direction. The team that had volunteered to go in on foot and get the guards before the convoy arrived and been inundated with the dead in short order.

He wanted to live, and if that meant fighting alongside the people that came to the aid of the guys they were supposed to take out, he’d do it. Nothing was worth being torn apart and eaten alive.

He’d been too busy fighting the zombies to notice them at first, but when he did they made an impression. The two of them, fighting like a well-oiled machine. The tide around them had quickly turned, but it was clear that they weren’t out to save any of them.

And then the convoy arrived, and with it more aid from the town’s denizens. And then someone thought it was a good idea to shoot one of them. The skinnier one went down like a bag of bricks, and the other man (the scarier one with the flashing eyes)  _ lost it _ .

He threw back his head, and he  _ howled,  _ and then he  _ shifted _ . Suddenly, where a man had been stood a monster.  _ And it was looking right at him. _

Heart beating double time in his chest, Gary Kowalski watches with terror as the monster’s teeth come for his throat. And then he knows no more.

*

Don Brown has known about werewolves for months now. First, in theory, when he and his cousins met the Argent’s and joined them on their trip to what was supposed to be a safe haven. Beacon Hills had turned out to be just the safe haven they were all searching for, and it just so happened to be protected by a pack of werewolves.

Don found it easier to accept after Robert was turned and didn’t change much except for a having a bit of a shorter temper.

But this? This was a whole new realm of scary Don’s pretty sure he doesn’t care to know anything about. His eyes are definitely not lying though, so he ducks back inside the pharmacy to get out of the range of the beast that Peter Hale has become. He stares wide-eyed into the darkness of the store for a full minute, and then Nate appears at his shoulder, and he flinches wildly.

Nate isn’t looking at him; he’s looking out the door at the carnage. “Come on, we’ve got to get Stiles out of there.”

Don closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths and then follows Nate into the street to try to get Stiles and pull him back into the store. They don’t get very far before they’re both back to fighting for their lives, this time against more than just the dead.

*

It’s the cold of the rain on his face that wakes him. The dull roar of his pulse pounding in his ears. The burning pain in his side. The bone-rattling roars of a pissed off group of werewolves and the screams of people and zombies. Stiles blinks several times and raises a shaking hand to wipe the water from his eyes. The movement sends a stab of pain shooting up from his side, and he groans.

“Stiles!”

He blinks again and someone appears above him, blocking the rain for a few seconds. He feels like he should know who this guy is, but his brain is still rebooting. “What happened?” he mutters, or he tries to; it comes out more like “Wha’ ‘a’ppen…?”

“C’mon man,” the guy says, and circles around Stiles to wrap his arms under Stiles’ armpits and haul him up and back. “We gotta get out of here.”

Stiles’ side screams in protest at the movement, but it’s enough to bring him into sharp focus. He blinks a couple of times, and then his gaze focuses and he’s already reaching for his .45. He starts firing as the man at his back continues to drag him across the sidewalk.

The fray is enormous. There are zombies everywhere. The people attacking them are shooting at anything that moves, and it looks like Scott has arrived because the wolves are all pissed and Scott’s Alpha roar can be heard above the din. None of that catches his attention though, because his eyes land on the giant, black monstrosity that he instinctively knows is Peter.

His Peter.

“Tha’s not goo’,” he slurs to himself as Nate Brown props him against the wall by the entrance to the pharmacy. “I have to -”

“You have to let me wrap this,” Nate cuts him off, already wrapping a bandage around the bullet wound in Stiles’ side. Don appears in the doorway, firing over their heads as the enemy come at them. The zombies are thinning, and the fighting is moving away from the pharmacy as the pack forces the attackers back to their vehicles.

“I have to get up,” Stiles mutters again.   


“No, we need to get you to Melissa,” Nate says.

Stiles turns a glare on Nate and deadpans, “Okay, let’s do that. Let’s take me to Melissa and you can deal with  _ that _ .”

He waves his hand, encompassing the utter carnage and the black wolf in the center of it. Nate swallows visibly. “He can’t just… change back?”

Stiles sighs. “It doesn’t work that way. He shouldn’t even be able to  _ do  _ that anymore. He’s not an alpha.”

“Scott can do that?!” Don asks, alarmed.

“No,” Stiles states. “Hence how that’s just not normal. He’s not going to stop. I have to get out there.”

Right at that moment Jackson takes one of Peter’s arms to the face, making him careen through the air and thud into the wall next to them. He’s growling when he pushes himself up to his hands and knees, eyes alighting on Stiles. “Any time, Stilinski.”

There are cars peeling out, heading back out of town, and now the focus of the wolves has shifted to the absolutely feral Pack Loremaster shredding the last of the zombies. Stiles looks around at the humans watching cautiously, and he doesn’t like the amount of weaponry now pointed at Peter.

“Help me up,” he demands, and Jackson crouches, sets his shoulder under Stiles’ arm and heaves him to his feet.

As soon as they round the corner, getting a clear view of everything, Stiles looses a fireball. It hurtles across the space between them, slamming into the ground between Peter and Liam, who is backing away, regretting having caught his attention.

“Nu-uh,” Stiles says as dangerous blue eyes and a maw full of fangs tracks the fireball back to its source. “No eating the baby wolves.”

Peter snarls, goes down to all fours and  _ prowls  _ around Stiles and Jackson. “Yeah, nope,” Jackson says. He makes sure Stiles has his feet under him, and then he bails.

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles snarks, wrapping his arm around his wounded side. He sways a little, but keeps his feet and meets the gaze of the wolf as it circles tighter around him. “Hey handsome,” he says to the wolf softly. “You remember me?”   


Peter comes within striking distance, and Stiles fights not to tense as he’s scented thoroughly before the werewolf wraps itself around him, pressing against his back and taking his weight. Stiles sags, Peter may be a murderous monster right now, but he’s still Peter. He weaves his fingers into coarse fur, leaning his weight against him.

“Think you can change back?” Stiles asks. Peter huffs and Stiles takes it to mean  _ ‘how the fuck should I know?’  _ and chuckles weakly. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Come on, we’ll figure you out after I get patched up.”

The ride back to the compound will be interesting to say the least.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, the best remedy is to snuggle. Also, kill them all is not the answer to every question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline wise we are at the end of October/beginning of November, which means that it's been 8-9 months since the beginning of the fic.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-Four: _

 

Butterscotch whines and scratches at the door. The sound of footsteps on the other side makes his floppy ears perk up, and he lowers his head to the crack at the bottom and whines some more, wagging his tail back and forth. He needs to be in there. One of his people is in distress, and he needs to comfort them.

The door cracks open, and Butterscotch sits and looks up at the Alpha. Brown eyes look down at him for a few moments. It feels like eternity to Butterscotch, so he wags his tail across the floor and whines a little. The Alpha of the pack is a pushover, and he steps aside to let Butterscotch into the loft.

It doesn’t take much to track the scents he’s looking for, even if they do permeate the loft. One of them always smells like electricity and books, and the other one like electricity and blood. He uses one paw to get the bedroom door open, and then he can smell the blood.

He whines and pads over to the bed, setting his chin on the comfy bed and nudging a hand. Fingers come up to scratch behind his ears just like he likes. He takes it as an invitation and hops up on the bed with the pair already on it. He nestles himself between their legs, setting his chin as high up on the enforcer’s thigh for more pets.

He settles in to watch over them.

*

Stiles is sweltering. He’s pinned underneath the massive, furred arm of Peter, who still hasn’t been able to shift back to human again. The wolf is curled around him, head bent so that his muzzle is pressed to his shoulder. He finds irony in the fact that Peter can’t shift back  when he’d transformed who knows how many times when he’d been alpha. He scritches Butterscotch’s ears, making the dog groan contentedly.

Maybe it’s not about not being able to shift back. Maybe it’s about not feeling safe enough. Stiles has been hurt before, he’s been beaten, nearly drowned, hit on the head and strung up for sacrifice. He’s never been downed before though. He’s never been shot, and even if he had been, he’s never had anyone who cared enough to rage out at the sight of him going down.

Because that’s what Peter had done. He’d raged.

A soft noise draws him out of his thoughts. A crackly shifting sound that has him turning his head to look at the baby monitor perched on the nightstand. A few more noises and then the telltale sound of baby babble. Peigi is awake. She’s not crying though, so he’s got a few minutes to figure out how to get loose.

Peter’s grip around his hip is like iron, and it doesn’t help that his free side is swathed in bandages from where he’d been shot in the side. It’s a shallow wound, only having hit the meat of his side leaving a long, angry gash. It hadn’t been the shot that had knocked him out, it’s the goose egg on his head from being knocked off his feet.

Stiles turns his head, lifts one hand and scratches at Peter’s ear, whispering, “You gotta let me up, babe. Peigi’s awake, I need to go get her.”

Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s Peter, maybe it’s both, but the monster in his bed loosens its grip, and Stiles manages to slip out of bed. Butterscotch crawls to the edge of the bed, ears perked as he watches Stiles sigh in relief and strip out of his shirt. He wipes under his arms with it to soak up some of the sweat, and tosses it into the corner. Then he pads out of the room and into the next, where Peigi’s crib has been set up.

Peter and Mark really had gone all out when they went to get baby supplies. They’d gotten anything and everything Peigi might need until she hit the age of three.

She’s laying in her crib, contentedly staring up at the moon and stars mobile (with happy faces staring back down at her) and trying to eat one of her feet. When Stiles appears in her line of vision she kicks exuberantly and grins at him around her foot.

“What’s all this nonsense?” Stiles asks her, reaching down to pick her up. She loses her grip on her foot and makes a brief surprised face; and then she’s in range, so she pats at Stiles’ face with her spit soaked fingers. “Thanks kid, I needed a bath.”

It amazes Stiles how quickly he got used to changing diapers and clothes. Her diaper is swiftly changed, and he swaps out her footie pajamas for a green onesie because if he’s sweating, she’s not going to need to be wrapped up in fleece. He carts her out into the main loft area to make up a bottle, already regretting not having taking his painkillers half an hour ago like he was supposed to.

She may be small, but she’s not light. She’s put on much needed weight since arriving.

“What do you say we go in the other room and try to convince Daddy to change back?” Stiles asks her as soon as the bottle is ready. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll be much better at persuading him than I was.”

She coos at him; he takes it as agreement.

His side is burning when they get back into the bedroom, so as soon as Stiles sits down on the bed, he reaches over and downs the pills sitting on the bedside table, draining the glass of water. He swings his legs over onto the bed, and Butterscotch wags his tail, watching Peigi avidly. The dog adores Peigi.

“Hey,” Stiles says, pushing Peter’s massive furry shoulder none too gently. “Wakey wakey. Up!”

Peter grunts, snuffling into the pillow. Stiles smacks his arm. He grunts again, and one luminescent blue eye looks up at him grumpily.

“Time to change back,” Stiles informs him. “You’re gonna miss some quality baby time if you don’t.”

He shifts around so that he can set the baby down between himself and Peter. She sits there, Stiles’ hand at her back, surprised for a few seconds at her new predicament; and then she squeals, flails and makes a grab for Peter’s face, yanking hard on the black fur. Peter is so surprised at her reaction to seeing his wolf form that he abruptly shifts back. If anything that makes Peigi bounce in her seat and  _ lunge,  _ her weight landing on his face as she pokes him in the eye.

He groans as Stiles laughs at him. He’s got no choice but to roll over and sit up as Peigi tries to stick her hand in his mouth. He pretends to chew on it, making her laugh as Stiles hands him the bottle he’s brought into the room with him. Peter takes it and settles the girl into the crook of his arm. She latches onto the bottle quickly and settles.

“I knew that would work,” Stiles says, shifting over a bit to lean his shoulder against Peter’s. “All of us in the same room where you can watch over us.”

Peter huffs but doesn’t reply because he knows it’s true.

Butterscotch crawls up the bed, wedging himself between their legs and setting his head on Stiles’ thigh, tail wagging. Stiles pets him. Peter feeds their daughter.

“Think you can do it again?” Stiles asks after a period of silence.

“I don’t know,” Peter murmurs, head drooping tiredly to the side to rest on Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m not  _ supposed  _ to be able to do it all.”

“Contrary bastard,” Stiles says, amused.

Peter snorts, “Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah well, I paint runes and sigils up and down my arms, not transform into a werewolf cliche.”

“Ha ha,” Peter deadpans. After a beat he says, “We’ll experiment later.”

There’s a long pause in which both Peter and Stiles begin to doze. Peigi fusses, so Peter burps her and then lets her finish the bottle. Eventually, after about five minutes Stiles says, “Happy Halloween, by the way.”

Peter’s eyes pop open and dart over to the wall calendar hanging by the door. “Tell me I didn’t become a cliche and transform on halloween,” he pleads.

“Nope,” Stiles pops his ‘p’ for emphasis, “You did it on the full moon on the day before halloween.”

“I hate you,” comes the flat reply.

“I know you do.”

Peter sighs.

*

Aiden groans as he rolls over. It’s strange how different things are now. Sitting up, he rubs at the mass of scar tissue that used to have an arm attached to it. He’s healed completely by now, the scars aren’t even the red of new ones, they’re faded to the silvered white of a scar that is years old. It’s strange, he’s never had a scar before.

“Is it still bothering you?”

He turns to look at Lydia who is standing the the doorway. She still has that fragile bent to her aura, even after all these months, but there’s a fire in her eyes he hasn’t seen since before the world ended. “I don’t know why,” he replies, turning back to face the wall. “It’s not even there to be a bother anymore.”

Lydia steps into the room and climbs up onto their bed, crawling across it to wrap herself around his shoulders. A fiery curtain of hair spills over his shoulder as she presses against his back, her scent enveloping him. He relaxes some under her touch.

“You’re not any less than you were before, you know,” she murmurs into the skin of his shoulder.

He sets his hand (his  _ one  _ hand) over hers where they’re clasped on his chest. “Everything is different. I’m useless.”

“You are not useless.”

“I can’t help out at the site anymore, I can even keep my balance half the time.”

“You’ll adjust. And Just because you can’t do exactly what you were anymore doesn’t mean you can’t do other things to help. You’re still you. You’re still a werewolf.” Lydia sets her chin on his shoulder and says, “I think you should go to Derek and Chris and ask for their help.”

“Help with what?”

“Retraining. You can still be just as dangerous as you were before, you just need to relearn how. Also, there’s Ethan, who can certainly help. He knows you just as well as you know him.”

There is a long pause during which Lydia scritches the back of Aiden’s head and settles most of her weight against his back. He knows that she’s right, but that doesn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “I’ll talk to Ethan and Derek.”

“And Chris?”

“I’ll think about it.” As good a person as Aiden knows Chris is, he’s still a hunter.

*

“Are you weirded out by what happened to Peter at all?”

Jordan blinks and then lowers the huge book he’s reading. Peter’s been very helpful about narrowing down the possibilities of what he might be, but Jordan’s pretty sure he’s got enough on his plate now to help narrow it down further. He’s leaning more and more toward one or two possibilities, but there just isn’t enough evidence to point one way or the other. “What?”

“Peter,” Cora says, and prises the book out of Jordan’s hands and settles into his lap. “The transformation.”

“I think it’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen,” Jordan says, weaving their fingers together. “You’re not going to do that, are you?”

Cora shrugs, “My mom could turn into an actual wolf.”

“That was  _ not  _ a wolf,” he says flatly. There was no way to describe what Peter had turned into other than ‘monster’ and ‘scary’.

“Derek says that that’s the form Peter used to turn into when he was alpha.” Cora sets her head on Jordan’s shoulder.

“We’ll have to take his word for it. Did you see Scott’s face?”

Cora nods. The expression on Scott’s face when he saw Peter had been truly scared. There’s a lot of history between the members of the pack, and that visage of horror Peter had been wearing must have brought a lot of it back. Peter had killed nearly half a dozen people before he’d been killed himself.

“You two are disgusting,” a gruff voice says from the door. They both turn their heads to watch Derek enter the loft. He walks around the couch to sit and take off his boots.

“You smell lovely,” Cora tells him, wrinkling her nose.

Derek ignores her. “Don’t think about Peter transforming too much,” he advises. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“How could it possibly get worse?” Cora wonders.

Derek stares at her and drops his boots to the floor with a thunk. His eyes flicker from his sister to Jordan and back, a frown marring his face. “How about the idea that we don’t know if he can turn back? Or how about accidental transformations? Or how this is affecting Stiles?”

“You’re a horrible person.”

Derek snorts and gets up, padding toward the bathroom. “Yeah, well, you’re in love, which is gross for me. So you deserve it.”

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind her brother, Cora looks at Jordan and says, “Be grateful you’re an only child.”

Jordan laughs at her.

*

In the few days following the attack, there is a general sense of wary unrest around the compound. No one had been expecting to just be flat out attacked like that. For those who had traveled across the country, they’d had few encounters with other living humans along their way. In most cases, it had led to the people met joining them as they went. There had been once or twice when those they met had continued on their own way, but they hadn’t been attacked.

At least, not until they’d nearly reached Beacon Hills.

Jackson’s troupe of traveling werewolves had encountered a couple of hostile humans, but it was the kind of hostility driven by fear. This had been organized, deliberate. That is what was frightening about it. Whoever is in charge of this group had thought that they were worth attacking.

“They had to have been watching us.” Chris leans over a map of the city, tracing his finger along the route their attackers had been taking. “They were watching us, probably ever since we got here.”

Nate nods. “If we hadn’t spotted the cars, Don and I would be dead. That group on foot was sent in early to take out the guard post.”

“On that side of town, without the guard post, we wouldn’t have even known they were there until they hit the construction site,” Chris finishes the thought grimly.

Scott is frowning, switching between looking between the map and Peter who hasn’t said anything at all yet. They’re all worried. Peter is human now, but there is the possibility he’ll change again. “We look like an ideal place now. We’re obviously secure enough here to not be worried about being overrun by the dead in the city.”

“Not to mention that wall’s pretty damn hard to miss,” Derek adds. “They probably chose now to attack because we started work on the gate. Once that wall is finished they probably haven’t got a hope in hell of getting through our defenses.”

“Do you think they know how much progress has been made?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. They’ve probably scouted as much as they can, but there aren’t any roads on the preserve side, and walking through those woods is suicide due to the zombies in it. I think they saw it extend for miles, and then we started the gate…” He shrugs.

“Stiles, Danny, how soon will the new early warning system be ready?” Scott asks after a moment of silence.

“It could go up now,” Danny answers for them. “Stiles enchanted the last of the stones we need last week. We’ll need to collect all the rocks we used on the current perimeter though.”

“I want it up,” Scott decides. “Take whoever you need. These guys didn’t get close enough to trigger the current perimeter, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t see the compound. There are enough tall buildings around that if you had a good pair of binoculars you could still see most of the compound. If we’ve got people watching us, I’d rather not have them doing it without us knowing, especially inside the range of the wall.”

“Got it,” Danny replies.

“Are we going to do anything about these people?” Robert asks. He’s been furious about this for days.

“We are  _ not  _ attacking them back,” Scott says immediately. “We are not stooping that low. We’re not going to become murderers.”

“They attacked  _ us _ !”

“And would it make us any better than them if we tracked them down and killed them all like they were probably planning to do to us?” Scott demands with a glare, “We have no idea what drove them to attack us. We’re safe here, and it’s not exactly a hidden fact! I won’t kill people for revenge, that never goes well.”

Peter snorts, but says nothing. His own attempts at revenge had been less than stellar.

“So we just wait for them to come back?” Robert demands. By the expression on a few other people’s faces, they agree with him.

“No,” Scott says. “But we’re also not going to just kill them.”

“You’re suggesting we send a message,” Stiles says. After so many years, he can read Scott like a book. “The guy in the basement.”

He’s not actually in the basement. He’s locked in the isolation room with Bull standing guard. He’s the only surviving person from the attack that got left behind. The  _ only  _ reason he isn’t dead is because he never got in Peter’s crosshairs and Derek had knocked him unconscious with a werewolf-strength hit to the noggin.

“We can’t let that guy go,” Robert begins, but this time he’s cut off by Jonah.

“He isn’t staying here, Robert,” Jonah begins. “And we certainly aren’t going to kill a wounded, unarmed man.”

“We treat him right. Bandage him up, let him get his strength back, give him a weapon and send him home with a clear message,” Olsen adds, gladly backing up Jonah. “A message that clearly states that so long as you don’t attack us, we’re perfectly okay with live and let live.”

“You want to let him go?”

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Olsen snaps. He and Jonah are old enough to be most of these people’s grandfathers, they’re not about to take that kind of behavior. “I don’t know if you remember or not, but none of us died and they lost over a dozen men.”

“Grudges and petty vengeance get us nowhere,” Jonah explains, much more tolerant than Olsen, “If we meet every person we meet with violence we may as well not build the wall.”

Robert subsides, clearly not agreeing but willing to let it be.

“Killing is not the answer,” Scott states, reiterating a view of the world he’s carried all his life. If people like Gerard Argent and Deucalion couldn’t change his mind, Robert hasn’t got a chance. “We send a message. The guy will be the side of it that states we just want to live in peace and to leave us alone. The fact that we just massacred their invasion force will be the side of it that tells them exactly what will happen to them if they try anything like this again.”

Lydia finally speaks from her place on the floor curled up with Butterscotch, “They know we’re aware of them now. If we can mount a defense like that when we’re surprised, what kind of defense can we mount when we’re prepared? These people will think twice or even fifty times before they come back here.”

Aiden snorts, “I’d almost like to see them try.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the seasons turn, change comes to Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a little vague and open-ended. That was on purpose.  
> Three more chapters left after this.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-Five: _

 

Luke doesn’t know how long he’s been in this room. It’s been a few hours since he woke up, and there’s been no movement on the other side of the door, not even when Luke peered through the little window in the door. He’s actually really surprised to even be alive. The last thing he’d known there had been a guy with  _ fangs  _ bearing down on him, and he’d been certain he was about to die.

But here he is, in a little concrete room just off a well-stocked infirmary, his wounds tended to and alive.

He’s not completely sure  _ what  _ to do with that information, really.

His mind flashes back to the fight. He remembers the cold sting of the rain and the screaming. He remembers the roar and the appearance of that black monster. He remembers the glowing eyes and the fangs and wonders: vampires?

The thought makes him panic, scrabbling at his neck. Did he get bitten? Is he going to be a vampire now? His mind starts racing, but before he can get into a full-blown panic, a voice interrupts his train of thought.

There are people in the infirmary now.

Luke freezes for a few seconds, and then somehow manages to get up and quietly go over to the door to peek through the window. There’s a huge black guy sitting in a chair nearby that he somehow hadn’t noticed before, and three people (a woman and two men) talking softly as they help a third man into a bed.

One of the men is the one with the fangs who Luke was certain was going to kill him.

As if the thought had summoned his attention, the man looks up, meeting Luke’s gaze head on. Luke ducks down behind the door, ears buzzing and heart rabbiting. Didn’t that guy have blue eyes? And they glowed; he knows they did. He didn’t imagine it.

The voices stop, and then there’s the sound of footsteps coming toward the door. Luke scrambles to the far side of the room (it really isn’t that far). The door swings open and the man (vampire!) steps into the room.

“You’re awake. Good. If I let you out of here are you going to try to hurt anyone?”

Luke shakes his head side to side rapidly, heart still going a million miles an hour.

“Good,” the man says gruffly. His eyebrows furrow, and Luke suddenly feels like he’s being judged by extremely angry caterpillars. “Calm down before you pass out,” he advises, and then turns on his heels and goes back into the infirmary, leaving the door open.

It takes a few minutes for Luke to be able to do anything but breathe and listen to the rushing in his ears. Eventually he manages to get his pulse under control, and he inches toward the doorway. He cradles his bandaged ribs as he pokes his head out cautiously.

The big man in the chair is now sitting next to the older man in the bed, the pair of them talking about something. The vampire with the very judgemental eyebrows is gone, and so is the other man. In his place is another guy, this one much paler, with moles dotting his skin. He and the woman are bent over a tiny figure on the second bed.

Luke’s brain seizes at the sight of the baby. He gapes, watching as the child gurgles and kicks its feet, reaching out for the man’s fingers with a burbling of laughter and a little squeal. Both the man and the woman are smiling as the woman tries to give the baby an exam. The baby isn’t having any of it though, and it twists on the bed onto its belly and tries to roll away.

“Oh no you don’t little missy,” the woman says, and even though her back is to Luke, he can hear the smile in her voice. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

The girl laughs again and claps once with joy as she’s rolled back over because suddenly she can see the woman again.

“Be nice to grandma,” the man with the pair advises as he holds her lightly in place. “She’s going to be your biggest ally when you’re mad at me and Daddy.”

“And don’t you forget it,” the woman advises, and then leans down to blow a raspberry on the baby’s tummy, making her burst into baby laughter and grab at her hair.

Luke needs to sit. The scary vampire is gone, and now there’s a baby, and what happened? He stumbles over to the chair the big guy has vacated and sits, clutching his damaged ribs and wondering if he really is dead.

“Awake are you?” the deep voice cuts through his shock, making him look up. The big man is looking at him with something akin to sympathy in his face. “I’m Bull, I’ll be your escort while you’re here.”

Escort? Oh, right. He’s basically a prisoner, isn’t he? After all, his group did attack theirs.

“Melissa’s going to want to check you out, but after than we can go get something to eat,” Bull offers, trying to be nice but mostly just weirding Luke out with how not angry he is.

He just nods helplessly when it becomes obvious that Bull is waiting for some kind of response.

*

“Do you think it’s a good idea to just, let him out like that?”

“It won’t do us any good to let him go with a story about how we’re cruel and kept him locked up the whole time,” Scott says. “We want him to want to try and advise against further attacks. Besides, I’d like to see him try to get past Bull.”

Okay, so that point is rather pointy, Derek decides. He’s a werewolf, and Bull still makes him hesitate because he’s so massive. Stan has no compunctions against hitting the linebacker, but he was also a professional hockey player, and it takes a special kind of crazy to willingly spend several hours in what equates to a brawl on ice with sticks.

“How long are we going to keep him here?” he asks, wondering how long he’s going to need to stay out of the way. The guy is very obviously terrified of him. Derek can’t blame him, considering that Derek’s face was the last thing he saw before he got knocked out.

“Just until Mom says he’s good to travel,” Scott replies as they enter the dining hall. “He got pretty thrashed.”

He had. A bullet graze to the thigh and several cracked ribs along with a miasma of bruises and strains. He might as well have been pushed down a hill and hit every rock on the way down.

“Are we sure about Stiles?”

Scott laughs, but it’s a little flat. “No. I’m sure about Peigi.”

Derek snorts, “Peigi is your secret weapon here?”

“She’s lethal in her cuteness,” Scott retorts stubbornly, accepting a loaded plate from Marigold with a thankful smile. Food around the compound had improved by miles when she arrived.

“That’s true,” Derek replies, unable to deny it as he accepts his own plate. “Just don’t let Stiles know you think his kid is more useful here than he is.”

“Oh, he already knows. Peter thinks it’s hilarious that my two most dangerous guys also come part and parcel with my most lethally cute weapon.”

“What are you gonna do, surround him with babies and hope his heart grows three sizes?”

“Sarah and Amy are already making him a flower crown.”

Derek can’t help it; he guffaws. Scott deserves to be wearing Derek’s mouthful of potatoes at the comment. Siccing a ten year old and a nine year old on the guy is just cruel.

“I asked Lisa to bring the kids in for lunch when she sees Bull bringing the guy over. They’re in the garden.”

“You’re pure evil,” Derek says with awe. He’s not good with kids, but he’s also not to the point where he’s willing to use them as viable scare tactics.

Scott looks proud of the fact that Derek finds him frightening in this moment. “We’re going to nice to him death.”

“Allow me to correct myself, you’re not evil. You’re devious  _ and  _ evil.”

“Thank you.”

*

The woman, Melissa, spends the entire time she examines and redresses his wounds arguing with the man who introduces himself as Stiles about Thanksgiving of all things. Luke finds the whole experience rather surreal.

“It’s November, Stiles,” Melissa is saying as Bull ushers Luke out of the door and into the sunlight.

“So? We don’t even have half the things we’d need to make it a real Thanksgiving.”

“”So we’ll some of the guys hunting for wild turkey and we improvise the rest.”

The rest of the conversation gets cut off as the door finishes closing behind them. A few feet down the sidewalk Bull is waiting patiently. Luke hurries after him, not wanting to anger the giant who is quite obviously his guard. They cut across the street, passing a garden in the process of being harvested of the last of its meagre bounty before winter really kicks in and everything freezes. Bull leads him down to the adjacent building, shouldering his way inside and holding the door for him.

Luke stops to gape once he’s got a good look inside.

The entire first floor of the warehouse has been converted into a large dining area. The kitchen is huge, with proper stoves and a sink with running water. Long tables are set up in rows. Some of them are plastic or wooden foldable tables, a few are big wooden park picnic tables with attached benches, and a couple of them are the big round kind usually found at weddings and political fundraisers. The collection of chairs is just as eclectic.

The variety of people doesn’t surprise Luke; his own group is fifty strong… or it  _ was.  _ Before they came here and tried to take what wasn’t theirs. They live in a campground in Whiskeytown national park. They have a pretty good setup, but it is still tents and camp stoves. Here they have electricity and running water.

And children.

The baby had been a complete shock, but watching a two year old toddle toward Bull babbling his name and asking to be picked up is almost more than he can handle. Luke fumbles his way over to the closest chair and sits in it, staring blankly at the table top like it might hold the answers he needs.

The table doesn’t answer him.

*

The weather has turned in earnest now. They have gone from the muggy heat of August to the torrential fall rains of September and October in the blink of an eye. Has it really been three months since they found Peigi and her mother locked in that trailer? Peigi shows the time in how big she’s gotten and how much more she interacts with the world and the people in it. She’s on the verge of crawling and has just been introduced to the joys of rice cereal and applesauce.

Maybe, now that life seems to be settling into a semblance of normal, Melissa has a point.

“You know, I guess having Thanksgiving this year isn’t such a bad idea,” Stiles decides as Melissa checks on Jonah one more time before they head for the lofts. “It would feel really normal.”

“Exactly,” Melissa takes her granddaughter away from Stiles, cuddling the now sleeping infant close as they head out into the street. “We need to live, Stiles, not just survive.”

Stiles wraps his arm around her shoulder. “You’re right. You’re always right, why is that?”

Melissa laughs. “I’m a mother.”

“I know the Brown boys would enjoy going hunting,” Stiles comments. “And I’m sure some of the others would want to go.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“I get enough death by killing zombies, thanks.”

When they reach the door, Stiles pulls it open and follows Melissa inside. “How is Jonah, by the way?”

“Oh, he says he’s fine,” she tells him as he helps her out of her coat. “His heartbeat is still irregular, but it’s stable and once we get him on the right medication he should be fine.”

“That’s good,” Stiles Peigi back from her, slinging the girl up onto his shoulder. She barely twitches. “Go get some sleep, Mom.”

Melissa smiles softly, pats Stiles’ cheek, presses a kiss to Peigi’s head, and then heads for the stairs and her bed. Stiles heads into the loft he and Peter share to put Peigi in her crib to finish her nap.

When he gets inside, he finds Peter sitting in the middle of the living area, legs crossed, eyes closed. He’s been meditating a lot since he shifted; trying to get a handle on it. He’s been making progress, but unlike when he was an alpha, it’s more work. He’s not the kind of man that likes being out of control.

Stiles has faith that he’ll be able to shift at will fairly soon.

*

“Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?”

Luke stares with wide eyes, unable to look away from Scott’s burning ruby eyes. He was wrong, they aren’t vampires, they’re  _ werewolves,  _ and somehow that’s  _ worse  _ if the internal panicked screaming in his head is anything to go by. Oh, not all of them are supernatural monsters, but enough of them are that it’s no wonder they had no problem taking out the attack force.

He nods rapidly. “I got it.”

Scott leans back a little, bends down and picks up a backpack. He holds it out to Luke, who instinctively takes it. “Water, some food, a knife,” Scott explains. “Enough to get you to your camp.”

Luke nods. The fact that they drove him most of the way to Whiskeytown is above what he’d expected, despite what he’s learned about the people in Beacon Hills in the last week. Scott shakes his hand, and Luke watches him walk back to the SUV and climb in next to Derek (who is still utterly terrifying). The SUV performs a three point turn and heads back the way it had come, leaving Luke standing alone in the middle of the road.

He turns around, shouldering the backpack, and starts to walk.

Strangely, he feels a little disappointed to be leaving Beacon Hills. It’s unsettling that he could feel so comfortable among people that know he’d originally come to kill them. It’s hard to stay cautious when one is being handed things by small children and simultaneously instructed on the existence of werewolves by the scariest man he’s ever met.

The whole week has been surreal, he decides.

When he gets back to camp, he doesn’t think he’s going to tell them about the werewolf part of the whole thing. Somehow he doesn’t think anyone will believe him, even with the dead walking.

*

“Think they’ll come after us again?” Derek asks, glancing in the rearview at the rapidly shrinking figure they just left on the side of the road.

“I hope not,” Scott says. “Even if they do, they’ve lost the element of surprise. Now we know they’re out there for sure, and we also have a pretty good idea of where their camp is.”

Derek nods, pursing his lips for a few moments before he asks, “Do you think any of them will come?”

Scott has made it clear to Luke that his people are welcome in Beacon Hills, so long as they are willing to live with the rules they lived by. “I don’t know,” Scott eventually answers. “I hope so.”

Derek grunts, he isn’t sure that hoping for people that attacked them to come looking for shelter is a good thing to hope for… but then, Scott’s an optimist with the ability to see good in everyone. Derek is a cynic.

“One can hope,” Derek says finally.

He doesn’t need to say it for both of them to hear it:  _ ‘I hope we’re not making a mistake’ _ .


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malia makes a choice, and a plan for a supply run is derailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 3 years of living with my grandmother who was a holiday decoration fiend (it didn't matter what holiday, she decorated for it) I came to the conclusion last Christmas that it must have rubbed off on me, because I am a Christmas decoration fiend. I don't care about other holidays (though if you plan to hand out goodies on halloween, I feel like you should decorate at least a little so parents are a little reassured sending their kids to your door).   
> So Cora had to be the Christmas decoration fiend in this. There has to be one in any fic where December happens.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-Six: _

 

It rains over the course of the next few days. A group goes out hunting for turkeys, despite the cold and the wet. They return victorious two days later, with two turkeys and a cold each. Melissa praises their hunting prowess while she forces them onto bedrest with her implacable mom face. Don and Nate go willingly, too tired to put up much fight. Steve argues feebly as he’s helped into bed and told not to get up unless it’s to go to the bathroom. Oscar and Blake both go, complaining about werewolves and how it isn’t fair that they don’t get sick.

Two power poles go down, the earth under them weakened enough that they just topple over under the weight of a downed tree. Frank, Danny and Ethan manage to get them up, but it takes a week. They eat Thanksgiving dinner by lamplight, but it doesn’t matter because they’re together  and alive.

“I want you to Bite me.”

Scott chokes on a bite of pie. Stiles slaps his back hard, making the chunk of dessert he’s choking on splatter on the floor. After a few seconds of wheezing and a long drink of water, Scott looks up at Malia and asks, “What?”

She raises both of her eyebrows and looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I. Want. You. To. Bite. Me.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be weak, or a liability.”

Stiles reaches out and pokes her in the side with his fork, making her jolt out of the intense staring contest she’s trying to have with Scott. Two tables away, Liam howls with laughter and has to lean on Mason at her reaction. Stiles ignores it. “Liar. Why do you really want the Bite?”

Her gaze is cutting and accusatory as she rubs at her side. Stiles smiles at her innocently, but she knows him too well to be taken in by that expression. “I wanna be strong enough to kill anything that tries to kill me.”

“Aaaand?”

She huffs, “That’s not enough?”

“He’s got a point, Malia,” Scott finally gets over his shock enough to contribute to the conversation. “The gate is finished, the wall is nearly two thirds of the way done, we’re safe here. Why do you really want the bite?”

Malia purses her lips and looks away from them, crossing her arms. “I can’t be defenseless. Taylor… I could have saved him.”

“You don’t know that,” Jordan says, entering the conversation with a gentle voice and an arm wrapped around her shoulders. “None of us was expecting it. I doubt that being a wolf would have changed the situation. It happened too fast.”

“But I might have been able to,” she replies.

Jordan squeezes her shoulders, exchanging a telling look with the packmates that were there at the station that day. There hadn’t been anything that any of them could have done that day. The fact that the security system would reset when the generators got turned on had been overlooked. None of them had thought of it. They were extremely lucky that Taylor had been the only casualty that day.

“It’s not a decision you can just make, Malia,” Scott says, setting his plate down and leaning his elbows on his knees, face earnest. “The Bite changes you. You wouldn’t ever be the same.”

“Besides,” Stiles interjects, “it could kill you.”

The room is silent, watching the conversation with bated breath. At Stiles’ statement, many looks go around the room. No one had really thought about what else could happen when you got bitten by a werewolf. Both Robert and Liam had been dying when they’d gotten the Bite. It had been done to save their lives, but apparently it hadn’t been a guaranteed save. The Bite itself could have killed them all on its own.

“I know that,” Malia says, and she does know. Liam is her little brother. She’s been in this pack for nearly a year. She’s made it a point to learn everything alongside her brother that she can. She and Mason both. “I want it anyway.”

“And what do I do if you die?” Bobby Finstock demands. Once an economics teacher and lacrosse coach, he has (since the world ended) become a father to three teenagers. “What am I supposed to do if it kills you?” he reiterates.

“Be okay. Know that it’s what I wanted,” she explains, looking over at him, gaze asking him to understand. “I want to  _ feel  _ safe.”

“You’re sure?” Scott asks.

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” she says, voice steady. “I’m sure.”

Scott sits back in his seat, running his hand down his face with a sigh. Across the table from him, his gaze meets Allison’s. Her eyes are intent, her expression calm. She nods once. He’s struck by the realization that maybe Allison knew Malia was going to ask for this. Allison, Malia, Cora and Lydia have grown close over the course of time. Girls are mysterious creatures to Scott. Who knows what all they’ve told each other?

He looks around at Peter, who just nods once, and to Derek who raises an eyebrow and goes back to his pie. Lydia catches his gaze, her expression set and intent. Every line of her body and expression is telling him  _ ‘you won’t talk her out of it’  _ and  _ ‘this is what she wants’ _ .

He turns back to Malia. “You’re going to sit with Peter and you’re going to listen to everything he has to say about the change. And then you’re going to listen to Liam and Robert tell you every gory detail about the change and then what to expect as a new wolf.”

“I will, I promise.”

“After you’ve talked to them, we’ll talk again, and if you still want the Bite, I’ll do it.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

“After the Bite, you’re going to do everything Derek and Peter tell you until you’ve got control.” Scott says, voice firm. Malia nods.

There’s a long silence as Malia leaves the dining hall. Most of the room is in shock. There had been no hint that Malia had been considering taking the Bite. None of them had ever really thought about anyone  _ asking  _ to be bitten. Of willingly becoming something completely different unless their lives depended on it.

Jackson clears his throat, “I’ll talk to her too. About what can go wrong.”

Scott nods. Jackson is the only person here who will have any idea what it’s like to ask for the Bite, though the two circumstances are completely different. None of the pack is willing to dispute that Jackson is the authority on the Murphy’s Laws of Werewolf Bites.

“I’ll be sure to scare the hell out of her,” Peter finally speaks. He’s swaying by the window, holding Peigi, who is dozing but not quite asleep. “If she can make it through that conversation still wanting the Bite, then I believe she’ll make a fine wolf.”

Stiles sits back with a sigh. “What a way to start off the holidays.”

Cora elbows him. “You’ll get over it. Want to help me and Jordan put up lights tomorrow?”

“We’re putting up Christmas lights?”

“Hell yes, we are,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “Just because the world ended doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have fairy lights.”

“Don’t argue with her.” Jordan sighs in a long suffering way. “Once she figures she’s right it’s not worth it.”

“You picked her,” Derek says meanly, because he’s her big brother and a little bit of a shit. “You brought that on yourself.”

“You just gestured to all of me,” Cora tells him. Derek smirks.

“Is she still convinced you’re some kind of fire elemental?” Peter asks curiously.

“He is!” Cora exclaims, and Jordan just gestures at her in response to Peter’s question.

“It’s as likely a theory as we’re going to get right now,” Peter agrees. “At least until your abilities progress enough to reveal your other form.”

“If I have one,” Jordan argues.

“You have one,” several of them chorus back.

“You guys are a bunch of weirdos,” Alex says flatly and then gets up to usher his kids up to bed.

This triggers a mass exodus. A few people linger to finish up the dishes, but most everyone else heads for their respective beds. Malia’s request notwithstanding, it had been a good day, following on a relatively quiet week. It’s finally starting to look like everything will be okay, and that the idea of rebuilding and loving on is actually possible.

There hasn’t been sight or sound of any of Luke’s people returning to Beacon Hills. They moved both guard posts just in case, and they’re prepared for an attack as best they can be. It’s been nice to have quiet, regular days as the weather has finished turning into winter.

The world seems to be settling into a new semblance of order. Changed to a point of near unrecognizability, but still livable, still life. It’s more dangerous, wilder, with predators that wear human faces; but the people of Beacon Hills are finally starting to feel that just because the world changed doesn’t mean they have to let it kill them.

*

December crawls in with icy fingers, leaving frost and ice in the wake of the rain.  Cora drags around anyone and everyone she can get her claws into helping her decorate the compound for Christmas. Garlands and wreaths, red and green ribbons. She hangs white and red lights up and down the street. The kids help her decorate the giant, fake Christmas tree she finds in the storage area of a department store and puts up in the corner of the dining hall.

“She’s terrifying,” Stiles mumbles, awed at the sight of Cora attaching a light-up star to the top of the tree. She’s standing on a ladder, and she’s smiling in a way Stiles has only ever seen when she’s tearing through zombies with Jordan and his axe at her back.

“She’s a Christmas monster, always has been,” Derek says, smirk loud in his voice. He’s contemplating a book of crossword puzzles.

“You’re evil,” Stiles decides. “Don’t you have a wall to be building.”

“It gets dark earlier in the winter,” Derek replies, and then puts down the book and reaches for Peigi. “Gimmie my cousin.”

Stiles blinks and leans away from the reaching hands, holding Peigi away from Derek, making her laugh and decide that this is a new and exciting game, even though they’ve played keep away with her as the ball many times.

“Stiles,” Derek says with a sigh, “I’m not going to corrupt her with my evil ways. You and Peter are way eviler than I am. I just build things.”

“And keep secrets so that you can watch other people’s torment,” Stiles says flatly. “Look at him, Derek.”

Jordan is sitting on the floor, wrapped entirely in sparkly red and green garland while six children, ages ten and under, hang ugly plastic ornaments from said garland in a mimicry of Cora’s decorating of the tree. He’s frowning despondently but lets it happen because all of the kids are laughing and having a wonderful time.

“Hey, I didn’t make him fall in love with my sister,” Derek says, unashamed.

Stiles sighs, rolls his eyes and hands Peigi to Derek, who winces when she bounces on his lap and yanks on his hair. Feeling no pity, Stiles gets up and walks away to find Peter, who has been spending the last few days taking his turn with Malia. Behind him, Peigi bounces again, her grip on Derek’s hand strong to help keep her standing. She reaches out and jams her hand into his mouth, yanking hard on his lip, making him yelp.

Serves him right, Stiles decides as he leaves the room.

*

Scott traces his finger across the map. The crease between his eyebrows reveals that he’s deep in thought. “How badly do you think it’ll be overrun?”

Chris tilts his head. “It’s a bulk store, and historically Americans have been known to buy in bulk when the world is ending.”

“So we should expect the worst,” Robert says.

“Yes, thank you for clarifying that,” Chris says, deadpan. “We could just hit more grocery stores.”

“We will,” Scott says. “But we’re going to end up needing what this place has just as much. There’s not much point in putting it off.”

“True,” Chris nods.

“It’s also a good opportunity to get Peter back in the field since his… transformation.”

“Yes, let’s talk about  _ that, _ ” Peter remarks, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine. I think I can handle a grocery run.”

“Can you?”

“It’s not something that I had to learn from scratch, Scott,” Peter explains, flexing one hand and shifting it between human and wolf. “I just needed to remember how to do it.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

Chris clears his throat,” Anyway. With the wall getting so close to being done, we should probably start really clearing the inside of  the perimeter.”

“That’s going to take days, this needs to happen before that,” Scott replies. “Marigold gave me a list of things we’re running low on. We could hit a grocery store to fill the need, but the Costco is a huge target. I want to clear it out before anyone else gets there.”

All of them know that he means that he wants to hit it more now than before because they now  _ know  _ there are other people out there.”

“We shouldn’t take anyone off of Derek’s team for it,” Peter says. “Aiden’s still getting back up after his arm, so Ethan should stay as well and they can keep helping on the wall.”

“That still leaves plenty of us to go on the raid,” Chris says.

“Let’s put together two teams,” Scott decides. “One can start clearing the buildings inside the wall, and the other will go to Costco.”

Small teams do better in close quarters than larger groups.

“We can have Marigold, Jolee and Alex come in behind the first team and look for anything useful as they clear buildings,” Robert offers up. “It needs to be done, and doing it at the same time as things get cleared by the team will just make it take longer.”

“Makes sense,” Scott nods. “Cora and Jordan should be on that team. They’re better at handling surprises than most. Maybe send Liam and Robert with them. It’ll give Liam some experience, and you can watch his back.”

Robert nods agreeably. “Consider it watched.”

“I want to take Jackson’s troupe with us to Costco,” Stiles states, “It’s a good opportunity to really see what they can handle.”

“That means that Bull, Chris, Allison and Mason could be another team clearing buildings,” Robert says. “Scott, you can go with Stiles and Peter and get a feel for our new pack members and all the squishy humans will be out of the way.”

“Probably for the best.” Peter has no qualms about being gentle with his comments. “No offense, Christopher, but, capable as you are, I still don’t think you could take four wolves on your lonesome.”

Chris shrugs, unaffected. “Better you be torn to shreds than me.”

*

“Stiles!”

Stiles turns, lifting one hand to shade his eyes from the sun in order to watch Allison jog toward him. “Hey Ally,” he says when she comes to a stop in front of him. “What’s up?”

“I need a favor,” she tells him, taking a few deep breaths.

“Anything."

She holds a scrap of paper out to him, and he takes it curiously. “I need you to get that for me, but I also need you to make sure Scott doesn’t know about it.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rise, and he looks down at the paper in curiosity. There are only two words on the paper, and they make him look up at her with surprise. “Really?”

She bites her lip, nodding. “Please.”

He nods. “Yeah okay. I’ll make Peter distract him or something. I’ll get it.”

She beams, throws her arms around him in a hug and says, “Thank you.”

He lifts her into the air a little, to make her laugh, and then lets her go, giving her a reassuring smile before she heads off to meet her father by the army Jeep. Peter appears at his side, raising his eyebrows in inquiry. Stiles hands him the scrap of paper, and Peter’s eyebrows shoot up when he reads it.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

“Stiles! You guys ready?”

Both wolf and spark turn to look at Scott, who is standing next to Jackson’s shiny black Escalade, holding an umbrella in one hand. Stiles waves a hand at him, and the pair head to the Jeep. Scott doesn’t seem to notice anything strange, but Jackson does because he meets them by the Jeep with an expectant look on his face.

“We might need a distraction once we start loading stuff,” Stiles tells him.

“What kind of distraction,” Jackson inquires. Then he smirks in a way that tells Stiles that he and the wolves that came with him are capable of many forms of distraction - all of them violent.

“Nothing big, just enough to let me pick something up for Allison without him seeing.”

“What?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, he just smirks and gets into the Jeep. Peter claps Jackson on the shoulder. “Best you don’t know for now. Plausible deniability.”

“Coming from you that’s terrifying.”

Peter grins.

*

It begins to snow gently as three vehicles pull out of the parking lot. The three vehicles take a left, heading down the street to the gate that’s only just recently been completed. When they reach it, they drive through as it opens, Aiden standing by the mechanism to let them out. As they turn east toward the Costco, the gate slowly closes behind them.

The streets are quiet as they go. The cold seeming to have gifted a strange sort of lethargy to the dead. Their movements are slower, more clumsy. The few that are in the street turn to stumble after the passing cars with movements that make it seem like they’re slogging through mud.

As they turn onto the frontage road that runs parallel to the highway, the lead car hits its brakes. The other two screech to a stop as Stiles and Peter get out of the Jeep to stare at what they’re seeing. The rest of the group joins them.

“Holy shit,” Margot breathes as she comes to a stop next to Peter, unable to look away.

At the bottom of the incline is the highway. It’s littered with abandoned cars, and there are zombies wandering down it. It’s not a few zombies either; it’s hundreds of zombies, all vaguely moving in the same direction.

“Is - is that a  _ herd  _ of zombies?” Julius asks, horrified.

“Do they do that? Clump together like that?” Tyrone wonders, equally horrified and yet fascinated despite himself.

“They clump together,” Stiles mutters. “But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

A series of murmured agreements goes through the group. They watch the slow-moving horde of zombies, too stunned to be able to look away.

“Which way do you think they’re going?” Margot wonders.

“South, it looks like,” Scott decides. Then a thought strikes him and he turns to look at Stiles. “The guard post. It’s right off the highway five miles down at the exit for Main Street.”

Horror crosses Stiles’ face. “We’ve got to warn them. The last thing we need is this mess diverting into town because they heard something. Who’s up there today?”

“Riley and Marigold’s older boy, Daniel, I think.”

“Radio?” Stiles asks, turning back to the Jeep to retrieve the piece of equipment.

Scott nods. “We better take a detour to the post anyway. Make sure this passes without incident.” Scott tosses the keys to the white, animal clinic van to Julius, who catches them deftly. “Drive down along the highway, find where this ends and if there’s been much deviation from large groups. Jackson, you stay here, let us know when the last of them pass you here.”

Both men nod. Tyrone follows his brother to the van as Stiles, Scott and Peter get into the Jeep. The two vehicles go in opposite directions, the white van back along the frontage road in the direction they came, the blue Jeep in the direction they were going, heading twenty miles down the road to where the only clear exit into town from the highway is located.

Jackson rummages around the in back of the Escalade, finds a set of binoculars and then climbs up onto the hood of the SUV, pressing them to his face as he tries to see just how long this line of zombies is.

None of them say anything as death walks past them.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The herd passes through, and the Costco run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it was about halfway through writing this chapter that I realized that I needed to end the fic, or it would never end. I do have plans to write a sequel depicting year two, but I will probably wait and use that as my NaNoWriMo project this November.  
> I also have intentions to write Jackson's road trip as a shorter side story.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-Seven: _

 

“Do you think they’re… migrating?”

“They’re not  _ birds,  _ Daniel.” Riley replies.

“I know that! A lot of animals migrate,” Daniel defends himself. He wishes that everyone would stop treating him like a kid. He’s the same age as Mason and Liam, and they don’t get treated like kids. They get to go on runs and actually  _ help.  _ Daniel’s a glorified babysitter for his brother and any of the other kids that just happen to be around.

Riley sighs. He gets it, he does. It isn’t that long ago that he had believed that he deserved to be more in the thick of things. He’d been severely disabused of that notion the night Miriam died. He still dreams about her dead body, about the hissing groan as she had turned. He’s content now to just do what he’s asked and stay in the background. Keeping watch is what he prefers now. He’s usually paired with Steve Brown, but Daniel has been complaining, so he’d offered to take the kid with him.

“Who knows what they do?” Riley offers in lieu of telling the kid to get his head out of his ass. “They’re zombies, there’s nothing natural about them.”

“Mom says they’re getting slower.”

“They’re dead, they don’t have any circulation. It’s the cold. Don’t expect it to last.”

The radio crackles again, and Julius’ voice sounds from the box clutched in Riley’s hand,  _ “Found it. Herd’s about three miles long. Slow moving, it’ll take a while.” _

Jackson’s voice is louder.  _ “They take up the entire highway.” _

A clatter sounds behind them, and Riley whirls away from his position crouched in front of the window to see Scott, Stiles and Peter entering the room. It’s a little CPA’s office. Cramped, but sheltered, and with good views down the highway in both directions as well as down Main Street.

“What’ve you got?” Scott asks, moving toward them.

Riley hands him the binoculars. “The first ones came over the hill about three minutes ago. They’re still a good four miles off, probably more.”

Scott looks out the window, pressing the binoculars to his eyes, expression grim. Peter is looking out the next window over, disregarding Daniel entirely where the boy is crouched on the floor and staring up at him. Peter is equal parts terrifying and fascinating for the humans at the compound that aren’t considered pack. Riley knows the difference. Most everyone that came with Chris and Allison are loved by the pack, but they’re not actually pack.

They all know what Peter is capable of, what he can do. Peter is a predator, but Riley also knows that the man doesn’t see anyone in the compound as a threat. He doesn’t see much at all as a threat. For Daniel, Peter must be one of the scariest things he’s ever been anywhere close to.

“We should postpone the shopping trip,” Peter advises. “Wait until this passes just in case we need to do something.”

“I could set a few traps,” Stiles offers, getting a sharp look from Peter. “I’ve been working on localizing rune sets into one spot with a trigger, like mines.”

“It’s untested,” Peter says flatly, voice a thousand shades of no.

“Would they take a lot of power?” Scott asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” says Stiles.

_ “Yes,”  _ says Peter.

“Thanks, but I think we’ll wait until after you’ve done some testing,” Scott says, eyes flickering from Stiles to Peter and back. “You’re a badass and I know you can handle it, but you’re also the only one here who can act like a rocket launcher if this goes south.”

Stiles nods, accepting the statement. Riley’s never seen it, but he’s heard stories about Stiles throwing fireballs and lightning. He knows that Stiles raised the invisible shield that prevents the dead from approaching the compound.

Scott lifts his radio. “Julius, follow along the herd. Let us know if any of them break off. Jackson, when you can see Julius I want you to come here. Look for signs of the same on the way. The last thing we need is large groups wandering the city where we don’t expect them.”

Two affirmatives come across the radio, and then the room falls silent.

The following two hours is tense. Hardly anyone says anything as they first watch the gigantic herd get closer and closer and continue watching as it passes the exit. Jackson, Stan and Margot arrive just as the first of the herd starts to pass by. They head up to the roof of the building across the street to get a secondary vantage point.

Julius and Tyrone arrive, grim. A small group of about twenty got pulled off the highway by some birds and are headed down Cedar. Other than those few, the herd has remained more or less intact.

It’s a very tense couple of hours.

As soon as the last of the herd disappears over the hill, Stiles sighs heavily. “I think we’ve just found out what the trade off for them being slower and stupider in the winter is. If they herd together like that it won’t matter how slow they are, it becomes a numbers game.”

“I think we need to take Chris and Allison off clearance and get them into the city,” Peter advises. “We need to know the status of the places where we  _ know  _ there are large groups of them. The mall and City Hall especially.”

“Anywhere downtown should be posted off limits for the duration of the winter at least,” Julius advises. “If it was a death trap going down there before it’s certainly suicide now.”

Scott nods thoughtfully. “We should have them check the public library too. It wasn’t as overrun as City Hall last we checked, but it has been pretty packed. And the High School.”

“Send Finstock to look at the high school,” Stiles says. “He knows it the best. Melissa can co-ordinate. Put her in front of the map. We can take care of the Costco, and after, I say we ask Derek what we can do to speed up the build on the wall. The sooner we’ve got five feet of steel and glass between us and the herds the better.”

“The fact that they’ll be done in less than a year is a miracle,” Peter interjects quietly. “We’ve already had one accident, we don’t need another. We can set up patrols for the gap, it’s not that big now. We can cover five miles easily enough.”

“We can set up the new early warning perimeter early too,” Stiles adds. “It won’t hurt anything.”

Scott nods, “Right. Okay. Riley, keep a lookout for any other activity -” Riley nods seriously “- I’ll radio base on the way. Let’s go do what we came out here to do.”

*

Lydia uncaps a red sharpie and then looks expectantly to Melissa, hand poised over the map. “You know, this isn’t exactly how I expected to spend my Christmas.”

“I don’t think any of us expected to live this long,” Melissa says. “Not really.”

“True.” Lydia nods. They wait in silence for a few minutes. This isn’t going to be a fast task. Lydia is mostly just keeping Melissa company and trying to feel useful.

Melissa smiles at her. “Don’t worry, if we’ve made it this long, we’ll make it the rest of the way.”

“I know,” Lydia replies, and starts to rotate the marker between her fingers after sticking the cap back on. “I just… I wish I wasn’t so scared to leave the wards.”

“You have every reason to be scared,” Melissa tells her. “I know I’d be terrified. Your powers aren’t controllable like that, and I wouldn’t want to feel those things crawling around in the back of my head.”

“Aiden helps,” Lydia offers weakly.

“Aiden loves you,” Melissa returns. “Of course he helps. Whatever it is about him that protects you is because he loves you. I don’t think there’s anything that could take that protection away from you.”

“I know that,” Lydia says. “But I also  _ don’t  _ know it. My heart says that whatever Aiden does for me will stick, but my head is worried it won’t hold up under a full on assault. It doesn’t block everything.”

“I don’t think it ever will,” Melissa consoles softly, sitting next to the redhead and wrapping her arms around her. Lydia sinks gratefully into the embrace. “You create pack bonds just as much as the wolves do, sweetheart. Aiden has them too, I don’t think that anything will be able to block your connection to the family.”

“I don’t want to feel one of them die ever again,” Lydia mumbles, closing her eyes and pressing her face into Melissa’s shoulder. Heavens, she misses her mother.

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Melissa replies sadly. “But just like every time before, we’ve got you. We’re not letting you go.”

“Thank you.”

*

“So, Costco, land of bulk foods,” Stiles says. They’re standing around the Jeep planning out how they’re going in. Jackson and Tyrone run a lap around the store to check for other exits, but it looks like the only open door is the front door.

“That’s a fucking huge door,” Stan comments. “How the fuck are we gonna block that?”

“We’re not,” Peter says flatly. “We’re going to clear the entrance and then close the doors behind us.”

“Doesn’t that block our exit?”

“We do this right and it won’t matter,” Peter replies. He doesn’t particularly care for Stan. He doesn’t particularly care for most people. “We hit the door as a group, then split off into pairs and sweep the building.”

“Standard procedure,” Scott says. This is why he brought them along. He needs to know what these wolves are capable of; and they need to know how the pack operates. “Clear the building first and then collect supplies. Peter, do you think you can drive one of those semis?”

“Naturally.”

“I can too, if we need more than one trailer,” Tyrone offers. He’s starting to realize how seriously the pack takes situations like this. They’re a well-oiled machine after nine months of working together in this environment. It’s been a while since they got to Beacon Hills, but there hasn’t been a large raid like this.

Scott nods. “Good. Clearing the place out in one go is probably the best bet since we can’t guarantee it’ll stay secure.”

There’s a long pause as the  _ ‘unlike the hospital’  _ goes unspoken. Stiles and Peter exchange a grim look. Jackson frowns. They had told him the whole story when he asked where Isaac was. The others wonder what’s changed the tone of the conversation so quickly.

Stiles clears his throat. “Here’s the deal, kids. Never wander off on your own. Always keep your guard up, even when you think it’s clear.  _ Do not  _ get bitten. Believe me when I say you don’t want to know what a zombie bite does to a werewolf.”

Margot shudders at the dark tone in Stiles’ voice. The Clark brothers exchange a grim look. There’s obviously a story there, and a bad one by the look of it.

Scott shakes his head, “Stiles and Peter, Julius and Tyrone, Jackson and Margot, Stan, you’re with me. Everyone clear?”

A chorus of yeses fill the air. The huddle breaks as everyone goes to finish gearing up. Scott takes point, flanked by Stiles and Peter. Jackson sets himself into a stance that is uniquely him. His traveling companions had found it unsettling at one time, but have since gotten used to it. It’s eerily reminiscent of the kanima and just as dangerous.

“Let’s do this,” Scott says.

They hit the front door of the huge warehouse-like store with the force of waves against rocks. The zombies milling sluggishly around the entrance are massacred in less than a minute as the seven wolves and one spark clear the area. As soon as the last of them steps inside the store, Julius and Tyrone jump up to grab the rolling doors and yank them down, locking them into place.

The store turns out to be both emptier and fuller than they expected. There’s a large clump of zombies milling around by the little restaurant window and registers, and a few pockets of twos and threes are scattered through the store. As soon as the immediate area is clear, they splinter into pairs, taking the store aisle by aisle.

It doesn’t take long. They’re all used to working in teams by now, and figuring out how to incorporate new styles with the old is fairly easy.

They’re all wolves.

There isn’t much they can salvage from the grocery part of store, but there’s still plenty of canned, bottled and plastic sealed food to make the trip worth it. Appliances don’t do them much good, but Tyrone does fill a cart with every battery he can find, alongside flashlights and battery-powered lanterns. Julius finds two pallet jacks and a forklift in the back, making loading the trucks easier. Derek’s quick and dirty how-to lesson aiding in the effort.

Stiles offers to take the pharmacy section. Since that area needs more packing up than the rest the others are willing to let him. Peter just goes with it, knowing exactly why he volunteered them for the tedious task.

“Why are there so many?” Stiles asks stupidly. He’s standing in the aisle staring at the many options and wondering how this became his life.

“Just go with it. Pick one of each,” Peter says. He’s working on the lock into the actual pharmacy part of the store. There will be good meds back there that Melissa will be able to use. Peter’s also all for stockpiling things like medicine and food; those are the currencies of this new world. People will always need food, medicine and weapons.

Stiles nods and then goes down the aisle picking one of each item and packing them in a box under a couple of jumbo packs of gummy vitamins. “Allison owes us for this.”

Peter rolls his eyes as he gives up on the lock, backs up and kicks the door in. “She can let us witness it when she tells Scott.”

“You’re evil,” Stiles says with a laugh. “I love it.”

Peter shrugs and heads into the pharmacy. Stiles buries a few more pregnancy tests beneath the neosporin and bandaids.

It’s snowing pretty heavily by the time they leave the Costco parking lot. It has taken most of the rest of the day to collect and load up everything they think might be useful. They end up needing the second truck, but it isn’t completely full. The sky is darkening rapidly as the convoy turns back toward the compound having successfully completed their task.

*

“What’s got you so antsy?”

Allison stops pacing and turns to look at Cora, who just raises her eyebrows at her expectantly. “I asked Stiles to pick something up for me.”

“What?”

Allison bites her lip. She hasn’t told anyone yet. She doesn’t know what to say; but Cora is one of her best friends. If she can’t tell Cora, how is she ever going to tell Scott? Cora closes the gap between them. “You can tell me. I promise I won’t say a thing.”

“I -” she looks away, down the street in the fading daylight and whispers, “I think I’m pregnant.”

Cora inhales sharply. “A pregnancy test?”

Allison nods.

“You know Melissa could probably test more accurately than any of those store bought things, right?”

“Yes, let’s imagine  _ that _ conversation. Me asking my future mother-in-law to give me a test to see if I’m pregnant with her grandchild.”

“Yeah, okay, I can see the weirdness in that,” Cora decides. “But she’s already a grandma, Ally.”

“I know that,” Allison says, “But this one wasn’t found in a trailer park two towns over, this one is the old-fashioned kind. The kind where it takes nine months to arrive and only does so after I forget what my feet look like.”

Cora laughs and then sets her hands on Allison’s shoulders and turns her to face her. “You’re gonna be an awesome mom, Allison. Way better than me.”

“Don’t say that,” Allison rebukes. “You’ll be wonderful. Besides, you’ve got time to think about that. You and Jordan aren’t even talking about marriage.”

Cora looks shiftly away from the other woman, making her frown.

“You’re not, are you?”

“No, but we might be.”

“Cora.”

Cora sighs, “Let’s just say I’m kind of hoping Stiles does that male thing where, when faced with so many options, he brings one of each home with him.”

Allison stares. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I’m not not saying it…”

Allison pulls Cora into an abrupt hug, making her flail in surprise before she settles into it. The two women stand there in the street, embracing and trying not to cry. Eventually, Cora pulls away, rubbing at her eyes and trying to pretend she’s not crying.

“Oh god, how am I supposed to tell him? We’ve never even really talked about what we are, much less about kids. What am I supposed to say? Hi honey, guess what! You’re going to be a daddy, but don’t worry, it’s only going to be half werewolf and half whatever the hell you are!”

Allison chokes back a laugh. “We all know he’s some kind of elemental. He’s not the devil.”

“No, but how badass is that? A fireproof, fireball-throwing werewolf?”

The mood sobers, and Allison whispers, “Are we crazy? Thinking about having kids in this world?”

Cora shakes her head, “That’s the only thing I’m not scared of. Lisa’s kids are great, and so are Alex’s and Marigold’s. And Peigi’s the happiest baby this side of the world. The wall will be up way before they’re born anyway.”

“When did we go from wondering if it’s real to being certain it is?”

“I think we already knew,” Cora decides. “Most women do. Isn’t taking a pregnancy test just to confirm what you already know?”

“My dad’s gonna kill me.”

Cora lifts Allison’s left hand. “Sweetheart, you’re engaged, he’s not allowed to be that mad. Besides, you’re getting married in like, a week.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s true.”

Several minutes of companionable silence follow as the blue of Stiles’ Jeep turns the corner, followed by a semi. Allison swallows hard, it’s time to find out for sure whether or not her world is about to change fundamentally or not.

“You know what scares me the most?” Cora asks as the cars drive past into the parking lot. “The idea that we’re old enough to be having kids and it’s okay.”

“Oh my god, we’re adults."

*

Cora laughs as Stiles continues to unearth pregnancy tests. There must be fifty scattered across the tabletop. “How many did you you think it takes to get the right result?” she asks incredulously.

Stiles scowls at her. “I can always take them back. What are you doing here anyway?”

Allison is comparing two of the tests and looks up to see Cora frowning at Stiles like she can’t decide if she wants to say it or not, so Allison decides for her. “Let’s just say that I’m not the only one that needs to use one of these.”

“Excuse me?” Peter asks. His voice has an unusual tilt to it. Cora refuses to turn around and look at her uncle. Peigi shrieks in delight from his arms at the sight of Stiles. She’s enjoyed her day with Grandma Melissa and Aunt Lydia, but nothing beats her daddies.

Stiles abandons his task and ambles over to greet Peigi with a kiss to the cheek. He takes the opportunity to pinch Peter’s butt. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Peter drawls, eyes still on his neice.

Cora scowls in a way that is eerily reminiscent of Derek. “You don’t get to do that.”

Peter snorts, “Is this a thing you want or am I burying Jordan somewhere they’ll never find him?”

Cora rolls her eyes and snatches a test from the pile, heading for the door. “Try it and I’ll bite your face off.”

“I’ll take these if you want,” Allison offers after a few awkward seconds. “It’s not like you guys can use them.”

“Please do, take them far away,” Peter requests.

“Thank you guys for getting them.”

“No problem Ally,” Stiles says brightly, hugging her. She returns it equally. “Congrats, by the way.”

“Thank you Stiles.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the first year after the end nears, so too, does the building of the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are! A long way after the start and there are still open ended things. I was trying to tell the story of the first year after, and I think I succeeded.
> 
> Huge, huge, huge thank you to Maldictum, who put up with my nonsense and then proceeded to Beta the entire thing. You are an angel and a scholar, kind sir.
> 
> Also, according to [Behind the Name](http://www.behindthename.com/name/janusz), tis the Polish form of John. ^_^
> 
> I do plan to write year two, but I will probably turn that into my NaNoWriMo project this year in November, as I think I need a break from the angst for a little bit. Also, I do intend to write Jackson's road trip too.

**Worn Out Shoes**

_ Twenty-Eight: _

 

Christmas passes quietly. Derek decides that the crew needs a day off, so no work is done on the wall that day. Scott shortens the watch shifts. More people have a shift than usual, but everyone appreciates having a little more time for their own pursuits. In the morning, family units gather, a few handmade or sought out gifts exchanged. In the evening, the compound shares a good meal.

Two days after the holiday, the people of Beacon Hills gather again to witness Scott and Allison’s wedding. It’s not official in the capacity of the old world. There’s no ordained minister or certified judge. No paperwork to fill out and file. No extravagant decorations or fancy food.

There is music, played from a cd player. Allison wears a white dress, and Chris walks her down a makeshift aisle. Stiles stands for Scott as best man, and Lydia is Allison’s maid of honor. Olsen officiates with a smile. Scott and Allison can’t take their eyes off of each other as they exchange simple vows under a pale winter sky.

They can’t take a traditional honeymoon. Where would they go? They can be given a couple of days of privacy though, and everyone tries their best to deal with everything on their own.

When the New Year comes, the wolves watch the humans get increasingly drunk as the night progresses. Many of them wish that they could get drunk, because the mood turns somber very quickly. New Year’s Eve becomes a lament to the lost instead of a celebration for the year to come.

The list of names is long.

“Ashley.” Alex is the first to toast a memory that night. It’s late, and all but the oldest of the kids are long in bed. His three are upstairs in the little apartment he’d chosen for them. His oldest, Amber, looks more and more like her mother every day. “She loved her family, and we loved her.”

Each and every one of them stands one by one to speak. Some have more than one name to list. Riley chokes up trying to get Miriam’s name out, but he gives a nod to Derek, finally beginning to be grateful that his own life was saved. Scott chokes up when he names his father, so Allison helps and lifts her own glass for Isaac.

“Alan Deaton,” Lisa Beardsley says, standing up and meeting Melissa’s gaze and then Scott’s. “A man I never knew, but one that gave his life to save my children, and for that there is no proper thanks.”

At the end of the night, as the clock ticks over to midnight, Stiles stands up. He doesn’t raise his glass. He rolls it between his hands contemplatively, letting the silence wash over him. For the pack (the ones that were there, that knew the loss like he did, that had witnessed his grief) the pain etched into his face is not new. For the members of their little community that had come to Beacon Hills weeks and months after the loss of the Sheriff, it’s stark and startling.

“Janusz Stilinski,” he begins and then clears his throat. He blinks into the light of the fire they’d built out in the field for the night. “A better father, a better Sheriff, a better man than anyone can ask for.”

There’s a lot unspoken in the words, making a few people wonder just what kind of man he was. Jordan is the first to get up, but one by one the members of the pack who had known the Sheriff rise, lifting their glasses to the sky and toasting his memory. When Stiles finally sits down, Peter presses their sleeping daughter into his arms so that Peter can wrap his own around both of them.

“Well,” Tyrone says into the silence a few minutes after the impromptu memorial finishes, “now that we’re all depressed as fuck, Happy New Year!”

A ripple of laughter goes around the circle, and the mood lightens.

*

“Stiles, what are you doing?”

Stiles doesn’t reply, he just continues to pretend to eat Peigi’s feet while the eight month old squeals and wriggles, laughing as she tries to get away by kicking her feet. She’s crawling now, and nothing can stop her.

Peter laughs, sitting down on the ground next to the pair. Peigi spots him and reaches for him with a laugh and babbles. She’s a bright, shining beacon of joy in a dismal world. Peter brushes some of the riotous brown curls out of her eyes.

“You’re supposed to be working on the wards, not playing with our daughter.”

Stiles pulls away enough to look over at Peter. His cheeks hurt a little from smiling, “There’s only so much I can do now. The rest is all stuff that needs to be done right before I put them in place. They’re as prepared as they’re gonna get.”

“Mmm,” Peter hums, and leans forward to steal a kiss before ducking down to pepper Peigi’s face with kisses. She squeals and kisses back with open-mouthed baby kisses that do more to get drool all over Peter’s face than anything else.

“Besides, she’s been so miserable,” Stiles says because teething is a bitch and both men and their daughter hate it.

Peter uses the hem of his shirt to wipe off the worst of the drool, revealing enough stomach that all Stiles can do is reach out and touch him. Peigi rolls over and and propels herself across the room to the box they keep her toys in. The box tips over, spilling toys all over as she grabs at them, babbling happily.

Peter leans back against the couch, taking Stiles’ weight as the other man situates himself against his side. They watch the baby for a while.

“What do you think of tattoos?” Stiles asks.

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot, and I think if I make the ink myself, I could tattoo the runes I use onto my arms, and then I won’t ever be vulnerable in a fight. I won’t run out of spells because the ink burned away. I also think that with tattoos, I could implement a few more spells. Like shields.”

“You are  _ not  _ tattooing yourself,” Peter says flatly.

“What if we rescue a tattoo artist?”

Peter contemplates the idea for a few minutes. Peigi crawls over to Butterscotch, who is fast asleep in the doorway of the loft, half inside and half out in the hall. Butterscotch loves Peigi and the other kids to distraction, so neither man worries too much.

“If we ever find a tattoo artist, you’re welcome to work with him to design working runes so long as they’re at least aesthetically pleasing.”

“You're such a vain peacock.”

“I like pretty things, and you’re the prettiest.”

Stiles laughs at him and gets up to retrieve the baby now making her escape out into the hall. There’s a baby gate in front of the stairs, but adult supervision is still only useful if the adult can see the child.

“Tell you what, if we find a tattoo artist I’ll give you veto power on the designs.”

“Deal.”

*

Derek guides the car down, waving his hand in a downward direction until the smashed vehicle comes down on the pile. He climbs over to release the chain and let the crane swing free as Oscar starts the process of spot welding it into place to the car below it. Derek does the same to the one on the left of it. Spot welding doesn’t do much in the long run, but it does help to prevent tipping or unwanted movement.

Far in the distance, about ten miles away, the other end of the wall looms. The wall encompasses just over twenty square miles of town, and it takes just over forty miles of wall to do it. Derek has never considered that the impact he’ll make on the world would be a twenty-five feet tall wall built with crushed cars and sheet steel.

“Hey Derek,” a voice says from behind him as he finishes spot welding and shuts off the torch. He turns his head to see Cora climbing up next to him. “You got a minute?”

Derek sets down the torch and looks over the site. He can’t see Jordan, Ethan or Stan, but he can hear them working away at getting the sheeting up on the outside of the wall. The tow truck pulls in with another car, and the next one to be lifted is currently being flattened.

“Sure, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

Cora finds a seat next to him, kicking her feet over the edge, “I don’t want you to get mad, so please let me say everything I need to say before you react.”

“Okay?”

She refuses to look at him, and he starts to feel worry creep in. After a pause, she speaks, “What do you think of Jordan?”

Derek’s eyebrows go up. “He’s fine.”

“Derek.”

“That do you want me to say? He’s fine.” Derek shrugs. “He’s Pack, he’s family. I like him. What else is there?”   


Cora huffs. “I’m pregnant.”

Derek’s brain shorts out, and it takes a minute to reboot. “Is that good?” he asks carefully, already thinking of ways to hide Jordan’s body in the wall if he needs to kill him.

Cora shrugs one shoulder. “I think so? I mean, I’m not sure I’m ready to be responsible for a kid, but I’m also really happy.”

“Okay.” Derek nods, blinking. He’s going to be an uncle, holy shit. “Are you upset because it’s Jordan’s? Because I thought you loved the guy.”

“I do!” Cora exclaims. “I think that’s the only reason I’m okay with it.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem here Cor, because all I’m hearing is that my kid sister is pregnant, she’s happy about it, and I’m gonna be an uncle.”

Cora huffs. “I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“What if he doesn’t want a baby?”

Derek wraps his arm around her shoulder. He likes being able to help his sister. She doesn’t lean on him all that often. She’s too self-reliant and capable to need his shoulder all that often. “I think,” he tells the top of her head, “that he’s going to be ecstatic so long as you’re happy about it. He’ll probably panic a little once the idea that he’s gonna be a dad catches up to him though.”

“So I shouldn’t worry about telling him?”

“Nope. Just do it before it’s too obvious to hide.”

They sit in silence for a minute, then Cora says, “Thanks bro.”

“No problem.”

*

Stiles climbs up the ladder to the small watch platform that has recently been added to the plans for the wall. It’s a little rectangle of space with a railing and a roof. It’s only a couple of feet taller than the wall. Derek had left out a single car at the top of the row to build in the watchtower. It’s only a few feet shorter than the rest of the wall, and it affords whoever is on watch a degree of cover that wouldn’t have been available if the entire platform had been built above the height of the wall. He’ll have to go back later and do the work to add in the other watchtowers they’ve planned, but Derek has agreed that it will be worth it.

“Hey,” Stiles settles himself against the railing next to Scott, following his gaze out beyond the wall to the city streets. “What’s got you up here?”

“I’m testing the visual range of the tower,” Scott replies.

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, and I’ve got a bridge I could sell you.”

Scott sighs. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”

Stiles raises both eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t expected this kind of deep thought when he’d come out here to see what was going on. “We’re alive if that’s what you mean.”

Scott shrugs. “I mean that we’re not the same people.”

“The world changed, Scottie.” Stiles looks away from his friend and looks out at the sun that is beginning to sink low on the horizon. “We had to change too, or it would have killed us.”

“Did you ever think we’d end up here?”

“In the zombie apocalypse? Not really. Stuff like that was always for movies and video games; even after our world became all about werewolves.”

Scott nods in agreement. “True.”

“If you mean in a more abstract way, not really.” Stiles lets his thoughts drift to Peter and Peigi. He smiles and says, “I never thought I’d have a kid at this age. Or that it would be with Peter of all people.”

Scott huffs an amused chuckle at that. “You’re good parents… And you’re good together, too.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a long pause. Time in which they watch the sky begin to color with deep pinks and oranges. Stiles bumps their shoulders together companionably, gaining a smile for his efforts. 

Scott closes his eyes and breaths in deeply, exhaling slowly before speaking. “I’m going to give Malia the bite. She’s probably the most prepared for it out of anyone we’ve ever met.”

“She’ll make a good wolf,” Stiles says. He waits a beat, then adds, “You were never going to change her mind anyway.”

“What if it kills her?”

“It’s still her choice, man.”

Scott doesn’t have a response to that because he knows Stiles is right. In the end, it is Malia’s choice. She’s too stubborn to die anyway, which will help make her an awesome wolf.

“What’s really bothering you?” Stiles asks. Malia isn’t enough to have driven Scott all the way out here on her own, there has to be more to Scott’s brooding than that.

“Allison’s pregnant.”

Stiles already knows that, but he’s not a big enough jerk to downplay what Scott must be feeling. He’s probably terrified. Who wouldn’t be? He’s still young, still figuring out the whole adult thing. Not to mention the terror of the idea of trying to raise a child in the world as it is now. Stiles may not have become a parent in the traditional way, but his worry isn’t any less.

“Congratulations,” he tells his best friend.

Scott smiles a little. “Thanks.”

“You terrified?”

“Hell yeah.”

Stiles claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome to parenthood.”

Scott tries not to laugh, but isn’t successful. “Thanks, I think.”

“Scott, you’re going to be a great Dad,” Stiles tells him. “And it’s not like you’re in it alone. You’ve Allison, and your Mom. And Peter and I are gonna be awesome uncles.”

“It takes a village, huh?”

“Hell yeah, but in this case it’s more like it takes a pack of werewolves and a village.”

Scott snorts, making Stiles grin at him winningly.

There’s another pause. They’ve been friends for so long that there is no need to fill the silence. It’s comfortable and familiar. Instead they listen to the distant sounds of the wall being worked on a couple of miles away. It won’t be long now until the wall is finished. Until Stiles is pulling down the wards to put up new ones that begin at the wall itself.

The wall is a tangible, solid piece of evidence that they’re safe here. That while they’re still going to have to fight for their lives every moment of every day outside of them, they won’t have to inside. Inside the wall, they’re surrounded by friends and family, united to rebuild and hopefully try to make the world a better place.

Out there the world might still be ending, but in here the world has stopped ending.

It’s time to start living again.

  
_ End _


	29. Author's Note

So, someone asked me to inform them when I turned this into a series so they could keep track of the sequel. Well, I've made it into a series and lost the comment of who asked me to? So I'm posting this note here. I'll leave it up for a few days, just to be on the safe side, then take it down.

NaNoWriMo starts on Tuesday, and I will begin writing the sequel then. It probably won't get posted until sometime in December.

Thanks!

Moonie

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Funeral Pyres](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10568604) by [pinkyapples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkyapples/pseuds/pinkyapples)




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